


Etta

by Arya_Silvertongue



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Immortality, Love Triangle, M/M, Malec, Old Love Returns, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-04-25 14:10:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14380287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arya_Silvertongue/pseuds/Arya_Silvertongue
Summary: Alec watches as the vampire crosses her cell not unlike a model would a catwalk, in those mundane shows Izzy loved to watch when they were little. She gives him a lethal smile, and he suddenly remembers that the creature in front of him is hundreds of years old.“If you ask me, it's not George you should be worried about,” Camille purrs. Her eyes hold his, and Alec fights the urge to shudder. In them, he sees triumph, and the briefest flicker of pity. “Your fiercest contender for our little warlock’s heart will not be found in that box of his. She is entirely in a league of her own.”Alec blinks, and, against his will, he hears himself ask, “Who?”Her red smile dissipates, and the name that escapes her lips is nothing more than a whisper.“Henrietta.”The war with Lilith is over.In the wake of their victory, Magnus receives a message that leads him to the ruins of the Church of Talto, where he finds the woman he’s loved and lost centuries ago.With her return comes a new threat to the Shadow World, and questions as to exactly where Alec’s place is in Magnus Bane’s life.





	1. Chapter 1

 

The fight took a toll on all of them, and the devastation is evident in all of Downtown Manhattan.

Through the blur of pain and exhaustion, Alec spots Jace crouched beside Clary, love and sense of self finally restored. He doesn’t need their parabatai bond to confirm this, but the echoes of overwhelming relief and elation warms him just the same.

His sister and Simon are a few yards away, ragged but breathing, and Alec almost allows himself to sigh in relief before his line of sight ends, and he freezes when he doesn’t find Magnus in it.

“Mag-” His voice is cut short when he shifts his weight on a bad leg, and all the air in his lungs come out in a violent hiss. He finally registers the countless bodies sprawled on the pavement, and Alec feels the panic set in as he desperately wills for none of them to be Magnus.

The battle against Lilith shook the foundations of the Shadow World. It brought horrors for every single Shadowhunter and Downworlder involved, but none more so than Jace and Magnus –  Jace, because he killed Jonathan, and Magnus, because of his unique relationship with the mother of demons.

He last saw him going toe to toe with the Greater Demon, holding his own and fighting so hard it made Alec ache in pride to watch him, before he was whisked away to help Jace and face the remaining disciples.

Slowly, he limps his way through the carnage, ignoring the shame as he looks away from the unseeing eyes of the dead, some of whom he knows, and others, he had considered friends.

There will be time to grieve, but not now. Not yet.

“Magnus!”

Beside a burning rubble, he sees a hint of purple, and Alec’s heart begins to race. What little adrenaline he has left allows him to jog past a fragment of a charred car, and when he stops, he sees Magnus’ prone body, unmoving.

“Magnus,” he gasps when he reaches him, the sound both a prayer and a declaration. Against his better judgment, he turns him over, his hands shaking too much to be of any use. He looks around for someone, _anyone,_ who might be able to help, but the place is a wasteland, and Alec’s vision clouds with unshed tears.

They fought.

They had an argument before the battle, Clary’s anger upon Magnus’ admission of his own hand in the potion that made Jace fall out of love with her fueling his own emotions. His trip to Idris and unscheduled visit to Camille left him bitter and frustrated, and Magnus’ continued reluctance to give him answers kept them from ever resolving the issue that started with the box. He left the loft angry at being dismissed, and guilty for snapping, and the next time he saw him, he was struggling to keep his guard up against the queen of Edom.

He brings his hand close to his cheek, hovering but never enough to touch. Before he can find out if his skin would be warm with life or cold as ice, Magnus gasps.

For a split second, his cat eyes appear, wild and terrified, but Alec is quick to hold him, hands still trembling, but this time with more relief than desperation.

“You’re alive,” he breathes out, unable to say anything else. A few moments later, Magnus registers his presence, and his face softens.

“Alexander.”

A sob escapes Alec’s lips, the sound of his lover’s voice drowning out any and all traces of destruction around them. As he buries his face in the crook of Magnus’ neck, Alec knows they’re going to be all right.

 

* * *

 

  _FIVE WEEKS LATER  
_

 

 

Catarina gives him a flat look, and Alec smiles sheepishly.

“Okay, okay. I got it.”

The healer shakes her head, a hint of amusement in her eyes. “You got it the first time, Alec. I don’t understand why you have to come here every day just to repeat the same thing.”

Alec shrugs. “Just making sure. Wouldn’t want to miss a step. Plus, I wanted to see how Madzie’s doing.”

“Every day for five days?”

The shadowhunter continues to tap his fingers on the desk of the nurses’ station, sending absolutely inconspicuous smiles to the other people running around. “Yep.”

Catarina rolls her eyes and grabs a clipboard, shooting the much younger man a sideways glance before leaning on the desk herself.

“Magnus knows the drill, Alec,” she reassures him one last time. “While I’m sure he appreciates your nursing him back to good health, this is not the first time he’s had to recover from a fight. If ever you forget anything – and I seriously doubt you will – he will know what to do.”

He nods, allowing the warlock’s words to sink in.

“Now if you don’t have any questions, I have rounds to make.” She raises her eyebrows, the same look of playful commiseration he often sees in Magnus when he does something stupid evident on her face. “And if I’m being honest, you’re putting a lot of people on edge here, Alec. More than I ever did, and I’m hiding blue skin underneath all this.” She points to her entire body,  and Alec laughs.

“Right. Sorry. Thanks again, Catarina.”

He gives her one last smile, before he leaves the hospital.

He is two blocks from Nightingale when he gets a call from Izzy.

“Hey.”

“ _I saw the doctor I met at the hospital again, and I may have freaked out and ran away.”_

Alec blinks once, twice, before settling on a mirthless smile he knows Izzy can’t see. “Hello to you too, sister.”

“ _.. was out with Simon and Maia to a mundane food park when he saw me. I panicked, so I left them. Is that bad? What should I do?”_

He can’t help but laugh at the idea of fierce and fearless Isabelle Lightwood running from a mundane, and it must’ve been loud enough, because he feels Izzy scowl on the other line.

“Why _are you laughing!”_

“Well-” She sounds genuinely pissed, but he doesn’t let it dampen his great morning. “ _Why_ were you with Maia and Simon, then? Are you into threesomes now?”

“ _My **god** , how do you even _know _that! I- you know what? Never mind. You’re no help at all.”_

He looks at the street he came from, to the direction of Saint Ambrose. “I’m sure it was nothing, Izzy. You’re just overreacting.” He pauses for a while, contemplating his next words. His sister has a temper, but sometimes, a good mood tends to leave Alec with fewer filters. “If you stop incorporating yourself into Simon’s relationship, you’ll be fine.”

The last thing he hears is Izzy’s shriek before he hangs up.

Much later on, when he’ll have his debriefing with the Council, he’ll tell them he never suspected anything was amiss. Not at first, no.

When he opens the door to the loft, Alec doesn’t feel anything wrong.

When he crosses the foyer, he feels just as light, remnants from his conversation with Izzy earlier bringing about amusement and exasperation for his sister’s foolish tendencies.

He’ll tell them he was thinking about how to make it up to her, and what lunch to prepare for him and his boyfriend. He’ll tell them he was looking forward to a great day.

When the Clave asks, he will tell them his instincts did not at all hint at anything that was to come.

So when Alec turns and makes a beeline for their bedroom, where he’s expecting Magnus to be fast asleep, he isn’t prepared to see nothing but crumpled sheets, and the warlock nowhere to be found.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Magnus stands at the foot of the cathedral -- a structure that would, to mundane eyes, look nothing more than a condemned building.

It _is_ condemned, but the glamours ensure that the charred bell tower and residual energy emanating from the place never appear to anyone without the Sight.

The newly reinstated High Warlock of Brooklyn shuffles his feet, the only thing keeping him upright is the poorly-prepared elixir he chugged before leaving his apartment. His skirmish with his father’s mistress drained him of most of his energy, and over a month of rest still isn’t enough to get him back in shape.

It was a raven.

A raven, so small yet so foreboding, went past all his wards and flew from his balcony, into his nightstand. Before he can reach it, the bird had burst into flames, leaving nothing more than a single scroll. A rolled parchment that contained Lilith’s mark and the address of the cathedral.

With one last deep breath, he enters the lair and hopes he’ll live long enough for Alec to berate him for this idiocy.

The place is bathed in darkness, what little light Magnus sees being filtered from a small window in the far corner of the altar. The stream of illumination is directed towards something in front, and Magnus stops, willing his eyes to adjust to the dark.

With slow and careful steps, he makes his way to where Lilith placed Jonathan’s tomb, still too far to make out anything more than what he thinks is a shimmer.

The closer Magnus gets, the heavier his chest feels.

When he is halfway through, torches on either side of him light up, the sound of flames startling the warlock. He doesn’t know why, but the place reminds him of something familiar. Something grave.

It reminds him of Edom.

When he reaches the foot of the altar, he sees it. A glowing column of bright, blue light.

It floats atop what remains of Lilith’s  conquest, and gazing up at it, Magnus can’t help but be mesmerized. The energy surrounding the mysterious sight stirs something in him. His magic recognizes it, and it yearns to get closer.

Nothing could’ve prepared him for what happened when he does.

As soon as he takes the first step, the light flickers, and the shimmer is gone. In its place is a glass encasement, hovering in mid-air.

Magnus’s knees give out, and he barely has enough sense to hold out an arm to keep him from falling face-first on the marble floor. His gasp -- sharp and short, and sending his heart plumetting to the ground --  echoes across the empty sanctuary.

For inside the glass case is a woman -- her white, shift dress as untouched as her bare feet, inches off the ground.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Alexander Lightwood pulls his fist back, so mad both his arms are shaking. His parabatai, who managed to dodge the shove but not the right hook, stands between him and the door.

“Fuck,” Jace mutters, fingers on his now bleeding nose, “I didn’t see that one coming.”

Alec doesn’t wait to hear the end of his protests, and instead makes another lunge for the exit. The Herondale heir, quicker in spite of his injury, dives in to stop him a second time.

“Seriously, man! Just _stop it!”_

Jace pushes Alec further inside the cloister, making the taller Shadowhunter stumble as he tries to regain his balance.

“Your lashing out isn’t gonna help us,” Jace continues, “We just have to wait for Izzy to come back and avoid getting into trouble until then.”

It takes Alec all his strength to stop himself from landing a second punch on his best friend’s face.

“Magnus is _missing._ And instead of looking for him, you all have me exiled out of the Ops Center like a child! I’m the head of this institute!”

“You’re not acting like one!” Jace lets the outburst land, before taking a deep breath. “Look. Some people in here like Magnus well enough, but others still share Aldertree’s beliefs and are probably wary of this search.”

Alec feels anger grip his chest. “If it weren’t for Magnus, they’d all be dead by now!”

As soon as the words leave his lips, the eldest Lightwood son flinches. Guilt gnaws at Alec’s guts and he hangs his head in shame. He hears Jace sigh and feels a little relieved, the understanding between them as present as it was years ago when they first  made their oaths.

“The point is,” Jace says, voice softer, “you’ve been breathing down their necks for the past few hours. I won’t tell you to calm down, but you have to get your shit together. We need you to be able to think straight, Alec. _Magnus_ needs you to think straight.”

The effect is immediate, and, like a switch flipped on, Alec straightens. He takes a deep breath to contain himself, sending Jace a silent a apology. When the blond nods, he looks past him and at the double doors, where outside, the rest of the institute is working on finding the warlock.

There is a thrumming in Alec’s core, a storm that’s been brewing at the center of his being ever since he walked inside the loft and found an empty bed.

He’s only ever felt this way twice before: on the day of Valentine’s massacre, and when word reached him that Magnus took off to confront Lilith himself.

“Alexander,” Magnus had greeted him when he arrived from his trip to Alicante, “I’d ask you how Idris was, but I’m afraid my mind is too occupied for me to be a decent enough listener.”

There was a smile on his face, but Alec could see it was forced. He left just after they realized the true identity of Magnus’s enigmatic client, and the hitch in the warlock’s voice when he admitted it to Clary was the last thing Alec remembered before he was summoned by the Council. It would seem the guilt continued to consume Magnus, and Alec wanted nothing more than to reach out and comfort his lover.

But Camille’s words persisted, and the sight of his face just made everything a little more real.

“Henrietta.”

One name. A single breath.

In that moment, Alec discovered that some names mean more than others. That one, simple word could stir so much in so little time.

He watched as Magnus’s bejeweled hand froze above a potion bottle.

He wanted to look away, he really did, but the flicker in the warlock’s eyes was unmistakable. The vampire unlocked something Alec wasn’t even aware was there. Fear, insecurity, and the dread that had been building up for weeks pushed the shadowhunter to stand his ground, and watch.

“Was she special too?”

Magnus’s eyelashes fluttered, and when their eyes locked, Alec went stiff.

Camille was right.

“How-” The warlock was struggling to breathe. “-how did you..? I-..who told you about that?”

It was never about the past lovers.

It wasn’t about the fact that Magnus lived a full life long before the Lightwoods held any significant positions in the Clave. It was not even about there being an aspect of his lover’s life he could never hope to understand, let alone be a part of. He couldn’t change Magnus’s past.

But it hurt to know he held so little of his future.

The box, a physical manifestation of the people who were once in his shoes and fell victim to the same charm he found himself ensnared in but also couldn’t change the fact of their mortality, mocked Alec from the first moment he opened it without Magnus’s consent.

“She wasn’t in the box, was she?”

Two days before he went to deal with the Council, Magnus fixed them dinner, and afterwards surprised him when he pulled out the beloved collection of mementos.

George. William. Anassandra. Lin. Even a beautiful Chinese hairpin Camille gifted him the first time they met.

Friends. Lovers. Family. He sounded wistful when he recounted every single memory attached to each object. He mourned them. He grieved. And he moved on. By the time he finished, Alec’s heart had already grown to twice its size, and he’d never loved Magnus more. He made peace with the box that night, with all the people whom he cannot blame for doing the same thing he’s doing – loving Magnus.

But there was no Henrietta.

“Alexander,” Magnus began, the effort to keep his voice steady clear to Alec, “who told you about that?”

 _That._ He never said ‘her’, and it raised Alec’s hackles.

“I paid the Inquisitor’s detainees a little visit,” he found himself saying, his own voice clipped.

Realization dawned on Magnus.

“Camille,” he whispered.

“Yes. _Camille._ ”

“You- you’d do well not to believe her lies, Alexander. We both know she has a silver tongue.”

He couldn’t meet his eyes then, and something in Alec snapped.

“But she wasn’t lying, was she?” he thundered. “There’s someone too precious even for your little box, and you weren’t gonna tell me about her at all, were you?”

Looking back, Alec knew he had been unfair. Magnus owed him no explanations. He should’ve simply taken what he was given, what Magnus allowed him to have.

But there was something in Camille’s eyes when she spoke the name. Something in Magnus that very moment that placed an ocean between them, and in it, Alec started to drown.

“Alec, please.” For a moment, Alec’s anger subsided, his shorter name sounding as foreign in Magnus’s voice as the desperation that laced it. “Not that. Not yet.”

He left almost immediately, unable to confront the shame that came with realizing that perhaps, he’s not the only one hurting.

The broken look on the warlock’s face was the last thing he saw before he closed the door.

Five hours after that, Izzy told him Magnus had tracked Lilith’s location and was on his way to confront the Greater Demon. For the second time in his life, Alec had felt his heart drop to his soles, and he was overwhelmed by so much regret and _terror_.

He knows Jace has moved closer, and has been whispering reassurances for the past minute, but he hears none of them, keeping his eyes trained to the door instead.

It’s now the third instance he’s felt this way. And Alec fears that perhaps this time, the fear is warranted.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Magnus can’t breathe.

The world around him stops, and everything narrows down to a single point –- the pale, dark-haired woman suspended in the air before him.

He’s old. He has seen more than his fair share of tragedies, and has loved and lost more people than he’s ever dared to remember. And because of that, some things really _are_ best left forgotten.

Most days, he can’t even remember what Ragnor’s voice sounds like anymore. Or the taste of the candied apple he loved so much as a child.

And the last time he allowed himself to close his eyes and _recall_ , he found he could no longer quite picture the exact shade of her eyes, or how one smile differed from another.

She hasn’t aged a day.

His last memory of her was one from ages ago, her back to him, making her way to the door -- to her death.

Now, looking for all the world like she’s simply asleep, Magnus wonders how he ever allowed himself to forget her.

“You cloaked your powers,” he’d told Lilith when he located her, in the middle of opening a rift between the mortal plane and Edom.

The smile she’d given him was sweet, and predatory. “I did. And it worked perfectly.”

Clary had already forgiven him, but the shame at the realization that he played right into the hands of the Greater Demon was something Magnus knew he couldn’t easily scrub himself clean of.

“You were always your father’s favorite,” Lilith continued, her borrowed visage showing something close to wistful, “I can see why.”

“He is not my father.”

“And you are not half a demon.” She paused in her spell, and regarded him with knowing eyes. “Never forget what you are, dear boy. The world surely won’t. Not even when you’ve become so _beloved_ by the Nephilims.”

His right hand immediately went to his pocket, where the Omamori charm Alec had given him was carefully tucked. He could hear the thinly-veiled threat weaved into her words, and he felt the rage that flared up his spine.

“You will not succeed, Lilith. Not this time.”

The mother of demons eyed her masterpiece -- a massive opening on the ground, connecting New York to the realm where both the demon queen and warlock trace their origin.

“You’re right.”

Magnus had blinked, unsure if he heard her correctly. “…I’m sorry?”

She gave the portal one last glance, before doing something that surprised even the son of her king: admitted defeat.

“You are right,” Lilith said, an odd resignation in her words. “I will not win this war. Asmodeus likes you and your little friends far too much to let that happen.”

“What does he have to do with all this?”

She smiled at his question, and Magnus remembered being pissed that despite their unconventional situation, the woman still had all the makings of an evil stepmother.

“You’ll find out soon enough. For now, you and I will have a little fun. My loss may be inevitable, but the least I can do is try.”

Magnus slowly held his arms up, gearing for a fight he knew would be unlike anything he’s ever had before. “You’ve run out of tricks, Lilith.”

“Victory is more than just winning, child,” she replied. “And before this all ends, I may surprise you yet.”

She had been right, after all.

Carefully, he approaches the crystal tomb - a structure straight out of his nightmares. With a trembling hand, he touches the glass, the barrier disappearing the moment he comes into contact with it. As if in slow motion, whatever magic that keeps her afloat dissipates, and the figure falls, into Magnus’s open arms.

_“Etta.”_

 

* * *

 

“Izzy!”

Alec almost jumps out of the bench as the portal reveals her sister, Catarina Loss not far behind.

“Any updates?” Izzy asks Jace, while the warlock turns to Alec with a grim look on her face.

“You said there was no sign of struggle?”

For a second Alec is taken aback by the direct question, but he soon remembers that the woman has known Magnus a long time, and is likely just as rattled as him, so he recovers immediately.

“No,” he tells her, “Other than the unmade bed, everything was exactly the way it was before I left. And I was only gone for over an hour.”

Catarina nods, her eyes unreadable.

Alec searches her face for any sign of confidence, if only to reassure himself that Magnus is not in any danger. That the idiot may have simply wandered off, too stubborn to be confined to his apartment even while in recovery.

But like her friend, she is excellent at keeping things in control, even her emotions. And the fact that she is trying so hard not to betray what she feels, is all the confirmation Alec needs.

“Magnus is one of the hardest creatures on earth to track when he’s on foot, even in his weakened state. But if we can get ahold of-”

Her sentence is cut off by the sound of someone running towards them, and when Alec turns, he sees Underhill.

“Sir,” he address Alec, a little breathless and his eyes wild. “In the cloisters. It’s Magnus.”

He doesn’t need to speak twice, for as soon as he finishes, all four rush across the institute, to find a crowd huddled outside the doors.

“What’s going on? Where is he?”

They all step aside to let him in, and when Alec does, the first thing he feels his relief.

The second is confusion.

His eyes immediately find Magnus, and seeing him breathing makes his knees give out in pure and utter joy.  A moment later, he is flanked on both sides by Catarina and Jace.

“How did he manage to open a portal here?” Jace asks.

Indeed, a glowing, magical door is beginning to close from behind Magnus. Beside him, Alec hears Catarina gasp.

“It can’t be…”

That is when Alec registers the unmistakable body clutched in Magnus’s arms.

Thinking on her feet, Izzy, along with Underhill, ushers the rest of the people out of the cloisters. Clary and Jace slowly get inside, following Alec and Catarina who absently-mindedly entered the sanctuary as soon as they spotted Magnus.

As the portal closes, the swirling sound stops, and all they hear is the high warlock’s ragged breathing.

Halfway through, Alec’s pace changes, and he starts to walk a little slower. The closer he gets, the more prominent the tugging in his chest becomes. A new, but familiar sense of dread starts to pool in his belly.

For the first time since he’s known him, the Shadowhunter walks into a room and Magnus barely notices his presence.

In that very moment, something in Alec’s world shifts.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

He can smell candles, but he doesn’t know where he is.

Magnus tries to reach out, to tap into all his sensory faculties, but his attempts fail and he is left with nothing but a pounding in his chest and the smell of burning wax.

He remembers waking up to the sun streaming down through the blinds, and an empty space beside him. He remembers reaching out -- though for what, he can’t quite put his finger on – and feeling disappointed when his hand only brushes against more tangled sheets.

He remembers longing.

An old mentor once told him, a little before he stopped aging, that other than the ley lines, warlocks also draw their strength from their emotions.

He always took the concept with a grain of salt, up until about a century later, when a dear witch friend was burned at the stake, and Magnus woke up three days later, alone in a tavern, drenched in blood.

From then on, he’s been careful with keeping his emotions in check. He’s learned the hard way that one of the most terrifying things for a demon spawn is regaining consciousness with dirt and blood under your fingernails, and the realization that you have done something very, very terrible.

Something unforgivable.

Those are the times when Magnus feels the most like a beast. Every inch the filthy Downworlder Valentine wanted the world be rid of.

A true monster.

But the longing endures and tingles in his skin, yet Magnus remains unable to process it. His breathing continues to come in short, shallow gasps, and there is a persistent itch in his throat -- a great need to scream himself hoarse.

He also remembers dreaming, before he woke up.

If he concentrates, he can still feel the warmth, and a pair of strong arms. He can hear a sleepy voice, going on and on about healing rituals. If he tries to keep his heartbeat steady, he can catch the ends of a soft whisper, a faint ‘ _I’ll be right back’_ , followed by a gentle heat in his left temple.

They all seem distant, and Magnus grapples to hold on to the memory -- the only anchor in the endless void he now finds himself in.

A void that is familiar, and oh so tempting.

Magnus Bane is tired. So, very tired.

Tired of magic, something he used to love doing but has taken so much from him in exchange.

_I’m too powerful for anyone’s good._

Tired of his immortality, of looking at the mirror every single day and seeing the same, youthful face, with only the eyes to indicate any of the centuries he’s lived, the chaos he’s seen.

_You watch the people you care about age and die._

Tired of the Clave, and of the deep-seated culture of fear and ignorance that has continued to paint him and his kind as beneath them.

_I am who I am. You are who you are. All the magic in the world can't change that._

And most importantly, he’s tired of being left behind. The endless cycle of loving and losing, and being expected to carry on, simply because it is all you can do.

_I’m not going anywhere._

“Magnus?”

 

* * *

 

“Magnus?”

Alec keeps his footsteps light as he enters the infirmary, unconsciously holding his breath the entire time. It seems as though an entire lifetime passed before Magnus looks up, and when he does, Alec’s breath catches. The haze in the warlock’s eyes is the same one he saw when they brought Magnus out of the cloisters – the same cloud of muted anguish in his unseeing eyes.

“He’s in shock,” Izzy said, when she found him in his office trying to keep a panic attack at bay. “At least that’s what Catarina thinks. She’s in there with them, along with some of our medics.”

He nodded at his sister, though he barely heard anything.

Shock.

It took all their efforts combined to bring both Magnus and the woman to the infirmary. The high warlock, whose entire form went rigid and his arms wrapped tightly around the mysterious stranger, was unresponsive to any of their questions, even Alec’s. It was only when Catarina managed to breach Magnus’s mental shields enough to place a calming spell and levitate the woman, were they able to escort them for medical assistance.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” his sister continued. “Catarina Loss is a powerful warlock, and Magnus’s friend. She’ll do everything to bring him back.”

The words stung, and Alec remembers flinching.

 _Bring him back_.

As though it wasn’t Magnus who returned to them. Not quite yet.

Alec loves his sister very much, but sometimes, her attempts to comfort him, no matter how well intentioned, serve nothing more than to force him into facing things he’d rather avoid. Like the alien feeling that settled in the pit of his stomach at the way Magnus’s eyes glossed over him, as if he were nothing but thin air.

Nothing but a stranger.

Sure, they’ve had fights.

Some were petty, others fairly serious – the worst one just before Manhattan, when he allowed Camille to manipulate him and he spent half the time during the battle with the breathless notion that _Magnus is dead_ , and the last thing he ever said to him was a malicious accusation.

They’ve had fights, but not a single one ever ended up with Magnus acting as though he doesn’t even know who he is. No eyes more blank than the first time they met, when he was literally telling the warlock what his name is.

And yet.

“Thanks, Izzy.”

He had brushed those thoughts away, and gave his sister a forced smile.

Isabelle, who always had a sixth sense reserved only for her older brother, saw right through his façade. He watched as she battled with her ever-present instinct to intervene, so when she nodded sharply, Alec was thankful for the mercy.

“Jace had to go and see Imogen,” she had said instead. “He said he’ll back as soon as he can.”

He kept his eyes trained to the papers in front of him, but he had been up for almost twenty-four hours, and he knew that had he not been sitting down, he would’ve keeled over.

“Alec?” He looked up, and saw worry etched on Isabelle’s face. He knew, just as sure as he is that the same blood runs through both their veins, the question his sister was dying to say. He allowed it, if only to let himself face it as well. “Do you have any idea who that woman is?”

He really wished he didn’t.

Said woman, who is now placed in an isolated chamber next to the infirmary, remains unconscious. Catarina had placed her in a magically-induced stasis before they can be sure exactly who and what she is. The warlock, who dropped by Alec’s office before she left, held on to his wrist so tight the Shadowhunter wondered if she might break it.

She simply informed him she’ll be back the next day, and would find a babysitter for Madzie in case she’ll be needed to stay long.

But what she did not voice out, her face betrayed. Alec wondered why there was sympathy in her eyes, just as much as worry.

“Magnus, it’s me.” He kneels by the bed, and hesitates for just a second, before reaching out with one hand, and placing it on Magnus’s left cheek. “I’m right here.”

 

* * *

 

_I’m right here._

They say the only thing that can overpower darkness is light. The smallest crack, or a single flame –

\- and the abyss is conquered.

Slowly, Magnus’s void catches flame, and the veil in his eyes is lifted.

All at once, his senses heighten, and he can feel raw power coursing through his veins. The events of the day flicker in his mind’s eye like a motion picture, and it takes all his strength to stop himself from gasping out loud. As the memories return, so does the pain, and he grits his teeth with a hiss.

Then he blinks, and all he sees is blue.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay. I’m here.”

He finds that the warmth that brought him back is from his cheek, where Alexander is caressing him. Almost on instinct, he leans to his touch, and his eyes close of their own volition.

It feels like coming home.

“Alexander,” he breathes out.

When he hears a short laugh, Magnus opens his eyes, and sees his lover with a weak smile, unshed tears in his bright, blue eyes.

“You have no idea how much I wanted to hear that.”

Magnus smiles too, heart filled with so much _joy_ he feels as though he might explode from it. He supposes if there’s one good way to go, he won’t object to going out like that. Safe in the harbor. In the arms of Alexander Lightwood.

For a long while, they stay like that -- leaning on each other’s foreheads, not speaking until both their heartbeats are in sync.

When Magnus breaks away, his gaze settles on Alec’s hands, which still haven’t stopped trembling.  They tell him everything he needs to know, and why the tension in the shadowhunter’s shoulders doesn’t leave just yet, even in Magnus’s embrace.

“I’m sorry,” the warlock says, finding the ignorance about what may have transpired for the last couple of hours more painful than his wounds.  “I shouldn’t have left like that. I- I have no excuse.”

Alec shakes his head firmly, and takes Magnus’s hands in his.  “What’s important is you’re here. That’s all that matters to me.”

And for a moment, it’s true.

The two of them, just Alexander and Magnus, seem to suffice.

It never ceases to amaze the High Warlock of Brooklyn just how greatly Alec Lightwood can affect him.

The sound of his breathing, a rhythmic pattern matching his own, washes over Magnus like a wave on the shore. The heat where their foreheads touch tethers him to the present, when he was so sure he would drift away. The scent of their shared shampoo, along with Alec’s aftershave that smells a lot like a certain warlock’s favorite gum, settles the rage in his chest.

He allows himself to feel the love emanating from the man in front of him, and slowly, Magnus’s world rights itself again.

 

* * *

 

Alec’s eyes drift to the clock by the door, and is a little surprised to find that an hour has passed since he entered the infirmary.

For an hour, he and Magnus had been sitting on the infirmary bed, just basking in each other’s presence. Silence was always welcome when it was just the two of them, the lack of words not an issue when they can communicate in many other ways.

Still, Alec’s relief manifests itself in a giddy sort of energy, and he’s been talking Magnus’s ear off for the better part of the time.

He talked of all things, happy things. The old woman at the hospital the other day, Izzy’s pitiful love life, even how he almost broke Jace’s nose. Ever since he’s met him, Alec found life became more meaningful, as he finally had someone to share it with.

Magnus, who is always so patient and interested, listened with rapt attention, color finally returning to his cheeks.  

When he finished, an hour had already passed. It was an hour more than the Head of an Institute is allowed to waste, but Alec can’t find it in himself to care. Magnus is back. Nothing else really matters.

“Will your parabatai be all right?”

Alec rolls his eyes at Magnus, having predicted that he will find guilt in any situation the first chance he gets.

“Jace will be fine. He owes his life to you, the least he can do is take a few punches in your honor.”

It gets a disbelieving laugh out of him, and Alec brims with pride.

When another moment of silence settles, Alec knows that they are nearing the subject he has been deftly avoiding. He sees it in the way Magnus searches his eyes, waiting for the opportunity to broach the topic as soon as his stories run their course. When he sighs, Magnus takes the cue, and the warlock gently takes his hands this time.

“When I woke up this morning, there was a raven.”

Alec blinks, already filled with questions but patient enough to let the other man continue.

“They’re what demons prefer as means of communication. They find fire messages a little too tacky.” He gives him a sardonic smirk, and Alec scoffs. “It bore Lilith’s mark, and an address.”

Magnus is quick to reassure him when he stiffens, as he finds a hand on his forearm way before he noticed the bristles.

“I went to the cathedral, the one where you all found Jonathan’s tomb. It was in shambles, but the glamours still worked.”

Alec sees the exact moment Magnus’s eyes cloud, and another wave of desperation claws at his throat. He feels him in front of him, solid and real, but his mind has drifted elsewhere, and in a place where he has never been, Alec is unable follow him.

“And I found her,” Magnus whispers, voice as far away as the memory he has summoned.

The shadowhunter allows his mind to drift too, to the moment he finds Magnus in the cloister, arms filled with white fabric and dark, raven locks.

“Henrietta.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

INTERLUDE I

 

There are times -- few and far between, but no less significant -- when Jace can see his grandmother’s grief clear as day.

He would be smiling at a story from one of his father’s childhood years, or fiddling with his necklace, trying hard to stop himself from asking yet another question about his mother, when Imogen Herondale’s eyes would flicker, and her own smile falters.

Each instance is brief, and ends before Jace can convince himself it was even real, but he understands what they mean. His very presence reminds the Inquisitor of the family she has lost, and her heartbreak, whenever she permits her grandson to see it, is gut-wrenching.

“No way,” Jace says, clutching his side in the middle of a breathless laugh. “I can’t believe my father did that.”

Imogen gives him a gentle smile. “Oh yes, he did. I was not exaggerating when I told you he possessed the same bold defiance, and it used to drive Marcus crazy.”

Like an afterthought, Jace’s hand finds its way to his chest, just above his beating heart, where the Herondale family ring sits.

“When you gave this to me, you said you got it from Magnus. Why did he have it?”

Slowly, his grandmother moves closer and takes the ring with her own hand. Once again, Jace sees the sorrow in her eyes, the endless mourning for a family he never knew and will never get to meet.

“The Herondales loved Magnus Bane, and if he wasn’t such a character, I’m sure one of your ancestors already found a way to make him one.”

The idea is hilarious and gets a scoff out of Jace, but the solemn look on Imogen’s face somehow tells him otherwise.

“My husband and son worshipped him,” the Inquisitor continues. “They both would pester him for stories about their own grandfathers and their fathers before them. The warlock apparently met them all. When-” Her voice catches, and Jace watches in silence as the woman regains her composure. “When your father died, Celine wanted nothing to do with this ring. She had a new one made, and convinced herself it was real. Fortunately, it was what Valentine stole, and this one I gave to Magnus. Somehow, I felt as though it was what Stephen would’ve wanted. After all, Herondales do seem to find themselves on Magnus Bane’s doorstep.”

_You got a spare room?_

This time, Jace laughs, and realizes that perhaps there’s a little truth to it.

“Inquisitor?”

They both turn to see one of Jia Penhallow’s delegates enter the hall.

“Consul Penhallow wishes to speak with you.” The Shadowhunter, a man with dark hair who doesn’t look to be any older than Jace himself, seems on edge. “She says it’s urgent.”

While there are still times when Jace finds it difficult to determine the line between Inquisitor and Grandmother, he can clearly see the change in her posture the moment the delegate mentioned the Consul, and he sends her a sympathetic smile.

"Go. I'll be fine."

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she calls out when she get to the door. “There are still photos you haven’t seen from when your parents almost destroyed the library of the London Institute. I’m sure you’ll love to see them.”

When she’s out of sight, Jace’s mind wanders back to the heirloom, taking it off to get a closer look.

_After all, Herondales do seem to find themselves on Magnus Bane’s doorstep._

Jace knows he owes Magnus a lot. Beyond saving his life, and the entire world from Lilith, he knows he will never be able to repay him even for just the simple act of making his brother truly happy.

By the looks of it, it seems as though the warlock has been looking out for him his entire life. Someday, Jace wishes he’ll have the opportunity to return the favor.

When Imogen returns over an hour later, followed by the Consul herself, something in Jace tells him he might get that opportunity sooner rather than later.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to cut our meeting short, my boy,” his grandmother tells him, a new, grim expression that wasn’t there before she left now on her weary face.

“What do you mean?”

Jia Penhallow steps forward, and answers for the Inquisitor.

“You’ll have to take us to the New York Institute. It is of paramount importance that we speak with Magnus Bane immediately.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Henrietta.”

It wasn’t a question, but Alec watches as Magnus nods solemnly, recalling the very first moment he himself heard of the name.

“ _Henrietta_ ,” Camille Belcourt had spat, as though the word itself was venom in her mouth.

Alec remembers standing there, outside her cell, reeling at the weight a single name could have. He knew little then, but he had wondered. Why the vampire’s eyes held empathy, just as much as it did anger. Like she failed to portray the nonchalance she wanted to show.

Perhaps Magnus was wrong, and Camille had loved him after all.

“Four hundred years, and you think you’re the only one to have had Magnus Bane’s affections? You really think you’re that special?” She kept pacing, like a tiger in a cage. When she did stop to look at the Shadowhunter again, it was only to appraise him with a disbelieving sneer. “Although I have to admit, you’ve gone farther than the others. He actually _loves_ you.”

While her tone was mocking, Alec couldn’t help but feel something warm bloom in his heart. Hearing someone say that Magnus loves him will never get old, even when that someone happened to be his boyfriend’s former lover.

“You’re full of bullshit, Camille. Anyone ever tell you that?”

Her laugh had been a beautiful sound, and it dawned on Alec that it wasn’t such a mystery how some people, mundane and Downworlders alike, can easily fall into her traps.

“Oh, honey,” she crooned. “I was already ancient when the word ‘bullshit’ was first uttered.”

When it became apparent that the former clan leader had no information to give him whatsoever about Lilith, Alec decided to leave. Unwilling to let go of her first visitor in weeks, Camille had called out to him, and the Shadowhunter found it difficult to resist her manipulation. Unfortunately for him, the vampire knew that when it’s about Magnus Bane, all bets were off.

“You’re not even gonna ask me? What I know about her?”

Alec stopped, but didn’t give her the satisfaction of turning around. “And listen to more lies? I’m good.”

“You do a good job of making it look like you’re different, but you’re really no better than everyone else who played your part!” Alec stiffened, and when he turned to glare at the prisoner, she was already smirking, victory on her face. “You tell yourself it’s his immortality that bothers you, not his long life. And for the most part, it’s true. The reality that one day, you will grow old and die while Magnus remains young and alive _is_ terrifying. I’ve heard it all. He did so love fraternizing with mortals.”

She began inching closer and closer to the glass wall, still far that the wards don’t activate, but close enough to taunt.

“I’m sure seeing that box rattled you. A big, hard slap on the face, wasn’t it? You realized you weren’t the first. So what makes you think you’ll be the last?”

“Shut up!” He had yelled, already feeling her getting under his skin. “Whatever you think you’re doing, it won’t work. We’ve already talked about it.”

“Not her,” she countered. “Never her.”

_Henrietta._

There was no Henrietta.

There must’ve been something on his face, because Camille's smirk returned.

“Of course he wouldn’t tell you. It took me a long time to discover it for myself, after all. And he’s only known you for a _year_.”

Alec flinched, but soldiered on. “You’re immortal. You should know time isn’t a way to measure relationships.”

“But of course,” she agreed, nodding elaborately. “ _Still_. Think about it. What is a year, against four hundred years pining over one woman? What can you possibly offer that would compare to the very first love of our dear warlock’s long, long life?”

That really had been the nail in the coffin.

The fact that Magnus is his first love, but he isn’t his.

 

* * *

 

 

“Henrietta.”

Magnus is aware Alec knows exactly who he’s talking about, but hearing him say it is just as unsettling as the first time.

“Yes.” He nods. “Henrietta.”

He holds his breath as he sees several emotions dance in his lover’s eyes. Alexander Lightwood, when with friends and family, wears his heart on his sleeve. And seeing pain and resignation in his beautiful face fills Magnus with the kind of guilt that only comes from loving someone so much, yet still ending up hurting them.

“Hey.” Alec snaps out of his trance and squeezes his hands. “It’s all right. I’m all right.”

It’s amazing how despite everything, the Shadowhunter still sees it as his responsibility to reassure and comfort him. It’s times like this that Magnus feels as if no centuries separate them, and finally, he is loved just as much as he loves.

“Ask me.”

The words are out of lips before he can process them, and Alec’s surprise must surely match his own.

“Ask me, Alexander,” he repeats, this time in a resolve. “Anything you want to know, I will tell you.”

For a brief moment, Magnus has to suppress the laughter that threatened to bubble up his throat. To love someone is to be privy to their thoughts, even in silence, and the stupefied look on Alec’s face is admittedly hilarious.

“Breathe, darling,” he tells him. “While we may be in the infirmary, it would be better if you don’t pass out on me.”

Alec finally snaps out of it enough to send him a glare, and Magnus allows himself to chuckle. When the humor dies down, however, he can’t help but feel the guilt creeping back in.

No matter how you put it, Alec’s surprise is justified, and it kills him to realize that in some way, he contributed to it, through his secrecy. Being a Downworlder isn’t easy, and being a warlock wired him to keep his secrets close to his heart. Telling the whole truth and sharing parts of his life never come easy to him, and sometimes, their relationship suffers for it. While they had reconciled over the weeks, the relief that resulted from winning the war made them set aside the root of their fight, and now that it’s presented itself again, Magnus knows there’s nothing else to do but the right thing.

Not if he truly loves Alexander as much as he knows he does.

“But I _am_ serious.” He tries to hold his eyes, hoping that somehow, all the sincerity and love he can muster will be communicated through them. “I…wouldn’t know where to start. But ask me anything, and I will try my best to answer. No more secrets.”

Blue eyes flicker, and Magnus’s heart stutters under such a loving gaze. Every time Alexander looks at him, all those years of contempt and ridicule for being a Downworlder become insignificant.

In his eyes, Magnus is the furthest thing from a Greater Demon.

“Camille,” Alec starts, evidently in a struggle of his own. “She said Henrietta was your first love. Is that true?”

Hearing Camille’s name sours Magnus’s mood, but he lets the anger take a backseat. It’s not what Alec deserves, and Camille had only pushed him to confront the things he should’ve resolved ages ago.

“Yes,” he says instead, finding the answer to be easier than he anticipated.

Alec nods, the indication that he continue silent but apparent.

“After I killed my stepfather, I ran away. I wandered the streets of Batavia for a few weeks before a warlock recognized me, and took me under his wing. He died over a year later, and I found myself with a vampire who ran a mummer’s troupe.”

Magnus pauses, and acknowledges the incredulous look on Alexander’s face.

“We Downworlders recognize our own, I’ll have you know. Which is more than I can say for most Shadowhunters, even with your _state of the art_ database.”

Amazingly, Alec takes the high road and ignores his comments. “You were saying?”

Magnus isn’t able to suppress an eye roll, but he continues either way.

“So yes, I joined a mummer’s troupe. The experience left me with a lifelong appreciation for cosmetics, as I’m sure you can tell."

“Magnus-”

“All right, all right. I get it.”

With much difficulty, Magnus leans forward and places one of his hands on Alec’s cheek. The gesture is done out of habit, but they both know this time, it is much more than simple affection. Magnus feels the memories he has spent a lifetime burying begin to surface, and the bitter taste in his mouth is a fear he knows all too well.

“It was just a few months after my thirteenth nameday when we reached the British Isles. My vampire mistress wanted to raid the Cornwall Institute, and having a powerful warlock, even a child, made her confident enough to actually do it. So she did, and that was when I first met Etta.”

_Who are you!_

He had frozen in the middle of trying to keep their carriage invisible when a little girl, no older than he was, looked right in his eyes. In his panic, Magnus had dropped the glamour, revealing himself, and the enormous getaway vehicle he was tasked to look after.

“No one!” he squeaked, the answer coming out in the programmed way Wilhelmina drilled him into mastering.

The girl, who visibly relaxed upon realizing the strange boy was just as terrified as she was, stepped closer, and openly gaped when she saw his eyes.

“You’re….you’re−” Magnus flinched, expecting the word before it escaped her lips. “−a warlock…?”

The boy blinked at her words, and for the first time that night, saw the girl clear as day.

She stood in her full height, lamp in one hand, a small, silver object on another. Her long, black hair fell almost to the back of her knees, and her white smock, although simple, had delicate embroidered patterns on it. Definitely not something a peasant would wear.

“My name is Henrietta, and I live there.” She points to the looming structure Wilhelmina and the others entered only moments ago. “Now tell me what you’re doing here, and why do you have a carriage with you?”

“She was stubborn and I was scared,” Magnus continues, a soft smile making its way to his lips. “But something about the way she talked to me -- the absence of disgust, perhaps -- that drew me to her that night. And what a night that was.”

Next to him, Alec sits motionless. “Was she- Are you saying she was−”

“−a Nephilim?” Magnus sets his mouth in a grim line, traces of any smile all gone. “Yes, she was. Henrietta was a Shadowhunter.”

 

* * *

 

 

A Shadowhunter. Just like him.

“Wait. Did you just say Cornwall Institute?”

Magnus nods. “Yes. The very first Shadowhunter Institute, established by Jonathan Shadowhunter himself. Her parents were running it at that time.”

Something about the fact that Magnus first fell in love with a Shadowhunter sends a ripple in the part of Alec’s brain where thoughts that drive him crazy reside. It’s one thing to think about his boyfriend lamenting over a phantom, some mundane who may have given him his first kiss and went on to have a family and grew old, and forgot all about the boy with sweet, dark brown eyes. It’s entirely another to think of a fellow Nephilim, with runes and a stele, who looked at Magnus’s warlock mark and, just like him, saw something beautiful.

He knew he wasn’t the first being to love Magnus Bane; he just wasn’t prepared to discover he also wasn’t the first Shadowhunter.

“Alexander?”

Alec blinks, and gives Magnus a tired smile. “I’m fine, it’s just- I’m a little surprised.”

The warlock nods, and looks to him, reminding Alec of the very reason for their conversation.

“Another question. Right.” He ducks his head sheepishly. “If she’s- if she’s a Shadowhunter, then- Magnus, what’s Henrietta’s last name?”

Before Magnus can answer, the door to the infirmary is flung open and Isabelle comes barging in.

“Alec. Magnus. You’re gonna wanna see this.”

There is urgency in her voice, and before he can protest, Magnus is already standing up.

“Hey, what are you- Izzy, what is it? Does he really have to go?”

Izzy is already on the other side of the warlock, helping him out of the bed. “Unfortunately.”

Between the two siblings, they manage to get Magnus across the Institute with little trouble. However, when they reach the isolation chamber where Henrietta was placed, what they found tells them that trouble has yet to begin.

Both the Consul and Inquisitor stand by the hallway, flanked on either side by Clave envoys.

“Alec,” Jace greets when he spots them. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to give a heads up. They were in a hurry.”

Alec nods at his parabatai, before facing the Council members. Jia Penhallow’s gaze has been on Magnus the entire time, and she only breaks eye contact when Alec steps forward.

“Mr. Lightwood. I’m sorry if it seems so urgent, but I’m afraid there’s no other way. We’re here to collect your patient.”

Magnus, who had been leaning on Izzy for support, straightens and scowls at the Consul.

“Absolutely not!”

The head of the council merely lifts her chin, undeterred.  “This is Council business, Magnus. It would be best if you don’t fight us on this.”

“You’re making a mistake, Jia.”

“I assure you, I am not,” she says, the determination in her voice something Alec very much recognizes. It’s the same entitlement anyone involved in Shadowhunter politics possesses. “She is a Legacy, and while we still have our questions as to exactly how she got here, we will leave them for later. What’s more important is that she be transported to Idris immediately.”

“You..you have _no right._ ” Alec hears the desperation in Magnus’s voice, and he steps in before he’s realized what he’s doing.

“Consul Penhallow, I’m sure we can talk about this in a more appropriate manner. Magnus was the one who brought her here, after all. And while they are both recovering, I believe it would be best to keep her here.”

Jia did not appear to hear him, and continues her battle of wills with the High Warlock.

“I have every right,” the Consul declares. “She is a Shadowhunter.”

Before Alec can interrupt again, he hears Magnus suck in a deep breath. For a split second, he watches as the warlock looks at him, before going toe to toe with the Consul herself, eyes hard.

“And she is my wife.”

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this a little early coz I'll be a bit busy over the weekend. Enjoy!

 

_17 th Century, Western Europe_

 

 

A dark-haired, little girl - who would swear up and down that she is no longer little, and had just turned two and ten four moons ago, thank you very much - quietly enters the courtyard, careful to avoid any sound that might announce her presence. Her hard, brown shoes – bespoke and tightly laced – carry her over dried leaves and stray twigs, in a dance only she and the pavement are privy to. When she reaches the edge of the fountain, a bright smile appears on her face, and the distinct glimmer of mischief makes its way to her clear, sharp eyes.

“Hello there,” she says, in a voice that is just above a whisper, and the boy that had been sitting on the other side jumps in surprise.

“Wha-!” There’s a flash of golden eyes, and for a tense second, the air around them crackles. When the boy’s vision clears and he sees his intruder, his eyes return to their normal hue, and he slumps back on his seat, relieved. “You really have to stop doing that, Etta.”

Etta, who didn’t so much as flinch, beams and claims the spot next to him.

“Don’t be so glum, bright eyes,” she says, nudging his side. “A foul mood never suited you.”

The boy watches her silently, the way he does when he knows she’s not being entirely truthful.

“I am solemn,” he tells her after a long moment. “It is you who is in a foul mood.”

The girl blinks once, twice, before giving up all pretenses to gape at her companion. It never ceases to astound her just how perceptive he can be.

Yes, she has been in a foul mood all morning. She tried her very best to conceal it, even chose to wear one of her best gowns and her most pleasant smiles. She had woken up before her nursemaid even got to her quarters, and had not uttered a single protest the entire time she was dressed. She felt as though it had been a great performance, but it would seem none of that can fool her new friend.

“And you say _I_ am the intolerable one,” she mutters, a little less upset than she wants to appear. “Nothing ever escapes you, is there?”

The boy chuckles – a soft, gentle sound that is carried by the breeze into Etta’s warm cheeks – and shakes his head.

“We all make use of what talents we have, my lady.”

Her gape turns into a scowl, which must have been the desired effect because the boy’s laughter grows, and soon enough, both children’s voices echo across the empty courtyard.

It takes a moment for the mirth to die down and Henrietta, the first to recover, takes the opportunity to give her companion a closer look.

He looks cleaner than when she had first met him, over a fortnight ago. His breeches are no longer soiled, and the jerkin he’s wearing – an old one from her own brother – looks better on him than the tattered doublet that had hung on his back like a rag. He is, however, still wearing the same shoes he insisted they let him keep –  black, leather ones that look worn but tailored. He told them they were an old favorite, and the dark shadow that passed over his face told her there was more to it than that, but she quickly realized it would be better not to pry.

“Are your lessons going well?”

His question brings Henrietta back to the present, and to the very reason why she was in such low spirits in the first place.

“Do not get me started on that,” she says, hands beginning to form tiny fists that the boy merely eyes with a hint of amusement. “They both continue to be unreasonable, and I cannot for the life of me understand _why_.”

“Your mother and father are plenty reasonable,” the older of the two defends. “Sewing and Languages are good skills to learn, as is History.”

Etta’s scowl deepens, and the boy watches her struggle before giving in and crossing her arms over her chest.

“Easy for you to say. You’re more Celtic than I.”

And he is, the little warlock with strange, yellow eyes. He is more learned than all the other children Henrietta has played with combined. His foreign features do not at all hint at the English poetry he’s mastered, or his ability to learn Cornish phrases faster than the girl who’s had a private tutor since she was four.

The more she learns about him, the harder it is for her to remember that he was simply a thieving vampire’s ward not even a moon ago.

“And I do enjoy sewing, no matter what Madame Demelza may say. I simply prefer…. a _different_ sort of needle.”

The boy quietly rolls his eyes at the allusion. “So I take it your trials won’t be happening anytime soon?”

“Unfortunately,” she admits miserably. “And now that you’re leaving, it’s becoming more unlikely you’ll ever witness my Rune Ceremony.”

While her fight with her mother the night before contributed to her current disposition, the real root of her sadness has everything to do with the boy’s impending departure.

Her new friend is set to leave for Madrid in the morrow, where he will be cared for by the Grigori.

Henrietta had loudly expressed her dissent from the decision, even going as far as threatening to leave with the boy herself, but her mother and father had been set on it. They may hold no contempt for warlocks, but some matters, they just had no control over, and Etta was forced to relent.

“There may still be a way,” the boy says, in an attempt to placate her. “The Brothers may permit me. I may not be allowed to attend the ceremony itself, but I can still be here after. That is, if your castle walls will still welcome me.”

The girl scoffs, as though what he said was the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard.

“That’s preposterous. Mother and father like you enough. So does Thaniel, much as he despises to admit it.”

Although her family did not appreciate being raided in the middle of the night, they value loyalty and courage, and her new friend has it in spades.

The vampires he came with almost succeeded in stealing a prized heirloom, if it weren’t for her brother, who went out to look for his wayward sister and ended up alerting the other Nephilims of the intruders. They shot down two of the undead creatures while Wilhelmina, their leader, managed to seize Henrietta. Unwilling to risk her life, the Shadowhunters surrendered their weapons, and only Wilhelmina’s ward, who refused to leave with her when she told him to, was able to redirect the dagger from Etta’s throat to her arm. The vampire, an ancient Daylighter, quickly took off after that, leaving the younger warlock behind. Because they owe him Henrietta’s life, he was received as a guest after that, as opposed to being treated a prisoner.

Still, a warlock’s place is not with the Nephilims, and sooner or later, he must go.

“You will write, won’t you? You must. You have to.”

The boy’s smirk is small, more instinct than practice, but it succeeds in getting Etta to flush a deep shade of red.

“Is that an order, my lady?”

Her scowl returns, but it has lost its power. “Don’t be a fool. I cannot order you to do anything.”

He laughs again, no doubt recalling the moment days ago when she had insisted he use his powers to retrieve her stele, which was taken for safekeeping after she nearly burned down the library. He had refused, and she did not speak with him til sundown that day.

“I will miss you, Etta.”

The words surprise her, and the warmth in her face makes its way to her chest, where it stays and thrives, like an unspoken promise.

“As will I, bright eyes.”  She gives him a soft smile, already thinking of the letters she cannot wait to send. “As will I.”

 

 

.

.

 

 

She can still hear the music from outside, but it no longer overwhelms her.

Etta knows her father will surely have a fit when he realizes she has escaped the fête, but she is in much need of a moment of silence, and there is only one place in the entire estate capable of providing her just that.

“Was the minstrel too loud?”

On instinct, one of her hands finds its way to her stele, while the other grips the weapon tucked to her bodice.

“Show yourself at–”

The demand dies in her throat the moment the stranger reveals himself. She would recognize those bright, golden eyes anywhere.

“It is good to see you again, Etta.”

He gives her the same soft smile she’s been telling herself she does not at all miss, completely unbothered by the Seraph blade now poised at his throat.

“Really?” He eyes the polished metal, powerful _adamas_ crafted into a double-edged tip, atop a beautiful, silver shaft about two ells long. “A spear?”

Henrietta - who has not heard his voice for a long time but can feel condescension even with her eyes closed - bristles, her own chin upturned.

“ _Does it not suit me, sir?_ ” she asks, Spanish comprehensible but far from perfect. There is a moment of silence after, where Etta almost regrets her words and she flushes in shame. Before her dignity further suffers, she takes her spear away, letting it return to its shorter, glamoured state.

“Wait!”

Before she can take another step, he grabs her by the arm, startling them both. When she looks up to give him a tart reprimand, what she sees takes her breath away instead.

“ _I think it fits you._ ”

His eyes, brown under the scorching sun but almost green in the moonlight, shine with something Henrietta can’t quite name. Something tender, a kind of softness that is quiet but powerful, just like him.

“You really are back,” she says, unable to control the awe in her voice.

“I am,” he answers, releasing the arm but not the gaze.

Because Henrietta has never been comfortable with things that confuse her – and seeing him after so long, standing almost a foot taller than her and dressed in apprentice robes that fit him just right _does_ bring a certain unease – she resorts to the age old banter they have both been accustomed to, even in their many letters.

“I see you still have eyebrows.”

She watches as he makes sense of her words, effectively breaking any moment that may have transpired. There is still some knowing in his eyes, but because of his innate kindness, he allows her reprieve. He raises his eyebrows to indicate he is listening, but he doesn’t dignify her any response.

“Your mouth isn’t shut as well, if your japes are any indication. Did the Silent Brothers not deem you worthy?”

There’s a quirk in his lips where he tries to suppress a smile. When he fails and breaks, so does she. Soon enough they stand in front of each other in the same empty courtyard from years ago, wearing twin smiles.

“I was never meant to be a Watcher, Etta. You knew that.”

She shrugs. “Why not? Could be good for you.”

“Well, we can’t all be glorious Shadowhunters with elaborate celebrations for our Rune Ceremonies now, can we?”

She immediately remembers the gathering behind her, in her honor, and silently prays to the angel her father has not yet realized her absence.

“May I?”

She blinks at the bashful look on his face, taking more than a moment to understand his request. When she does, she flushes, and tugs the right sleeve of her gown.

“Wha- what are you- …Oh.”

She smirks at the color that takes over his face at the bold impropriety. When he sees the rune, however, the look he gives her is one of confusion.

“Why is it on your upper arm?”

While she expected the question, it still doesn’t make answering any easier.

Everyone in their family has had the Enkeli in the back of their left hand. Her brother. Their father. His father before him. It’s a tradition, passed on from the very first of their ancestors. It’s a privilege that speaks of their bloodline, and of their ancestry.

Henrietta is the first to have it elsewhere, and the reason behind it is something even she has yet to understand.

“You have an awful lot of misgivings about my choices don’t you?”

She intends for it to be playful, to allow their conversation to steer into another direction, but she doesn’t succeed. When he moves to get a closer look at the rune, Etta feels herself stiffen, his breath close enough to raise the hairs at the back of her neck. Though from surprise or something else, she cannot quite determine.

“Your scar,” he whispers, gentle fingers tracing the only mark left from the fateful night of their meeting. “It’s still here.”

_Will you really turn your back on me, my dear boy? For this little Nephilim?_

He had always been extraordinary, from the first moment she’s known him.

“Of course,” she manages to say. “I quite like it.”

The scar reminds her of all that is good in the world. Of why Shadowhunters risk their lives to save people, from dangers both seen and unseen. It reminds her of a beautiful night with no moon, and of magical eyes that saved her from the vampire with a dagger.

Now it sits just below her right shoulder, enclosed in the dark shape of an angelic rune, and looks like it has always belonged there.

“Enough about me,” she tells him, pulling back the sleeve of her gown and slowly making her way to the fountain. “You’re the one who just returned. _You_ owe me stories.”

He blinks. “Aren’t my letters enough?”

“Hardly.”

As they settle at the center of the courtyard, they talk of many things. For a long time they stay where they are, basking in each other’s presence. The years they spent apart all but vanish, now that the two old friends are together once more.

“Her name is Catarina,” he tells her. “She’s fierce. Powerful, too. And around the same age as I am. I’m sure you’ll love her.”

She gives him a wistful smile. “I’m glad you love Madrid. Mother was worried it might not have been the best place for you.”

He gives her another look, like he knows something she doesn’t. “She was right, after all. I can’t imagine being anywhere else.”

His happiness is evident, and she _is_ happy for him, but talk of Madrid reminds her of something a Council envoy shared with her before the ceremony, and something foreboding grips her chest.

“What is it?”

She tries to arrest the emotions that must’ve shown in her face, but it’s too late. He’s always been too perceptive.

“There are talks of war. Between Spain and the French. They say a rogue warlock has the ear of Cardinal Richelieu, and that he has a vendetta against the Madrid Institute.”

The young warlock sighs. “As far as I know, it’s inevitable by now. The Brothers have been on edge about it.”

She remains silent after that, something that doesn’t escape him as well.

“It will be fine, Etta. The Shadowhunters in Spain are formidable, as are the Grigori. They’ve taught me a lot. I can take care of myself, you know. Have a little faith in me.”

“I do, bright eyes.”

He doesn’t look convinced, if his frown is any indication. When he refuses to relent, she sighs.

“It’s Thaniel.”

“Nathaniel? What about him?”

She looks back to the fête, knowing that somewhere inside, her older brother is nursing another glass of wine.

“He’s in love with a mundane.”

He gapes at her, taken aback. “Perdón?”

She scowls, knowing full well he heard her the first time. “I know you heard me.”

“I did,” he says. “I just wasn’t sure I heard right. Your brother? In love with a mundie?”

Etta sighs, feeling the weight of the world on her shoulders. She’s sure Thaniel will not appreciate being talked about, but it’s a secret she’s been keeping for quite some time now, and having someone else to share it with is a relief.

“I’m afraid so,” she admits. “A daughter of a merchant in London, who thinks he’s a smith’s apprentice.”

She knows she must sound awful, with the derisive way she speaks of the woman, but her brother’s situation hasn’t been kind to them both. It is just another tragedy waiting to happen.

“What?” she demands when she seems him smiling.

“Nothing,” he quickly supplies. “It’s just…I mean, does your family ever do anything the easy way?”

She shrugs. “Afraid not.”

She doesn’t speak for a long moment, finding herself lost in her thoughts. When she hears him speak again, it almost makes her jump.

“Magnus.”

There is a moment of silence, one Henrietta spends blinking at the warlock.

“I’m sorry?” she finally says.

He gives her an impossible smile, one she’s not sure is real or not. “I’ve chosen a new name.”

A pause. “You have a name.”

Something dark crosses his eyes, but he quickly wills it away.

“I don’t use it anymore.”

Etta is finding it utterly difficult to take him seriously.  “Well. I’ve given you one, haven’t I?”

He smirks at this, evidently pleased at the twitch she feels is beginning to develop in her face.

“You can’t expect people to call me ‘bright eyes’, Etta.”

When she can’t take it any longer, she stands, her hands making its way to her hips, righteous fury in her chest. “And you can’t expect me to call you after my cat!”

“He’s not a cat, Etta. He’s a beast.”

“YOU TAKE THAT BACK!”

He doesn’t respond to that, waiting for her to recover. When she does, she returns to her seat, a little more sensible but still indignant. Rightly so.

“Please tell me you did not just name yourself after my chartreux.”

“I did. And for the last time, Etta. Animals are not good companions. People will accuse you of being a witch.”

She shrugs. “I see no problem in that.”

His eyes become soft again, and Henrietta’s heart begins to beat a little faster. This time, she allows herself to meet his gaze, and while there is still that tenderness, beneath it is a touch of mischief she knows all too well.

“It’s about to get worse, isn’t it?”

He smirks again, completely expecting her reaction. “The Grigori has baptized me with a nuevo nombre.” When he stands, it is only to extend a hand to her.

“Lovely to meet you, my lady. My name is Magnus Bane.”

 

 

.

.

 

 

Etta stays beside the bookshelf when Miguel Fernandez summons him.

“Buenas Tardes, Don Miguel,” he greets, his demeanor so different she can’t help but hang on to his every movement from her place in the shadows. “ _You called for me?”_

She understands the language much better now, so she gets most of what they’re saying. Still, she gets caught up in the novelty of seeing him again that she almost misses her prompt.

“…de Inglaterra,” the Institute Head repeats, his poor attempt at a cough all but subtle.

When Etta finally remembers her part, she quickly straightens and steps out, basking in the look of absolute surprise on Magnus’s face.

“Hola, bright eyes. _Did you miss me_?”

She has been hesitant of this decision, knowing in her heart that it is not the right course of action. But her world has not been right for a long time now, and a small fountain in the heart of Cornwall is no longer enough to chase the darkness away.

“Etta?”

The unbidden smile that reaches his beautiful eyes tells her it’s all worth it.

 

 

.

.

 

 

It’s him who tells her the news, in the end.

She has been in the Madrid Institute for almost three sennights when she is summoned by Don Miguel to his solar. When she arrives, she finds Magnus waiting for her instead.

“What are you doing here?”

He is as still as a statue, a broken look on his face. She wants to reach out, and gather him in her arms, but there is a stutter in her chest that stops her. Something that tells her his heartbreak is not for himself.

“Magnus, what is it? What’s going on?”

Slowly, he makes his way to her, his hands on hers before she can say anything else. When his eyes find hers, Etta’s world stops.

“Nathaniel’s dead.”

Loss.

It’s what they call the gaping hole that consumed Henrietta as her knees buckle and she falls to the ground.

She can’t quite remember how long she stayed there, nor exactly when the tears came. She remembers screaming, and the soft sound of a silencing charm as it enveloped the room. She remembers strong arms that were the only thing keeping her upright.

And she remembers her brother, with the smile he gave her before she left.

“Shh, it’s all right. You’ll be all right, mi amor. Everything is going to be all right.”

Attacked by an Eidolon demon. In a raid outside Falmouth. His heart ripped out.

“It’s my fault,” she breathes, words like flames in her throat. “It’s all my fault. My fault, my fault, _my fault.”_

Magnus continues to hold her as she trashes in his arms

“It is _not._ It’s not your fault, Etta. Please don’t blame yourself.”

“It _is!”_ She manages to push him away, and as she grips his shoulders, she sees nothing but her guilt, and the promises she’s made lying dead on the ground before her.

“I left.”

It’s all there is to it, and the admission takes all the strength from her. When she reaches a hand to his face, she sees that it’s trembling, and she cannot will it to stop.

“I didn’t- I didn’t wish to go through with it. I refused my fate.” He is still shaking his head, but she wants him to understand. _Needs_ him to understand. Why it’s all her fault. “They did not have me move here, Magnus. I lied to you. I _left_.”

“Etta-”

“I left, and Thaniel took my post. He’s dead because of me.”

 

 

.

.

 

 

It was already dawn when Etta wakes up in his arms.

She leaves for Cornwall before the sun rises.

 

 

.

.

 

 

She ignores countless fire messages from him. She tells herself it’s all for the best.

Over the next two moons, her mother becomes ill, and her father is made Inquisitor. Etta continues her training, until the spear is as much a part of her soul as the angel blood that runs in her veins. And the family ring, plucked from Nathaniel’s corpse, rests heavy above her heart, next to the crucifix Magnus gave her, her first night in Madrid.

She receives the Mark of the Legion before her nineteenth nameday, and they place it below her Enkeli. Below her scar.

When Miguel Fernandez’s son arrives in her doorstep, her world shifts for the second time.

 

 

.

.

 

 

They said dozens of Asmodei attacked the Madrid Institute and the Cathedral of the Grigori. Several Watchers and Nephilim died.

They took Magnus with them.

 

 

.

.

 

 

It takes her two days to track them down. Two days, and she was still too late.

When he steps out of the pentagram, fires of Edom nipping at his heels, both Catarina and Etta rush to his side. When he falls in her arms, he is shivering.

“It’s me, my love,” she tells him, over and over until they can both banish his screams from their memories.

“It was him.”

For the first time since she’s met him, his beautiful eyes hold nothing but terror, and pain.

“It was him all along, Etta. In Batavia. It wasn’t a warlock, it was _him_.”

It takes her a moment to comprehend his words. She remembers the story. Before Wilhelmina, there was a Javanese warlock who took him in. He taught him how to use magic. Magnus wears his ring.

“It was my father.”

 

 

.

.

 

 

When she turns twenty, she finds herself in the courtyard again, the last of her family left.

She feels more than hears him, and when she turns, he is there, the same soft tenderness in his eyes.

“My lady.”

“Magnus.”

She doesn’t hear him move, but a moment later, he is beside him.

“I heard you were made Head.”

When she nods, he turns to face her. They are both silent when he slowly takes her hands in his, tracing the runes she has on both. He moves just as gently, and Henrietta is once again slowly running out of air.

She knows this is different now. New.

“I am nearing my prime, Etta.”

His voice is quiet, barely more than a whisper. He sounds scared, and his eyes hold so much uncertainty and fright, and in the moment, she wanted nothing more than to chase his fears away. They don’t belong there.

“Soon enough, my form will be frozen in time. I will be like this forever.”

The weight of his words dawn on her like a bucket of cold water, and her breathing ceases altogether. She’s known about this for a long time. She knew about warlocks, and their nature. She knew about their gifts, and their curses. She knew, yet she is still unable to see it coming.

“Well.” Her voice comes out hoarse, and she cannot stop heaving. “You better look your best, then. Else you’ll be forced to live with unruly hair for the rest of eternity.”

His eyes are grave, and the jape dies between them.

“It’s really happening.” she tells him, her own words foreign in her tongue.

“Yes, it is.”

His hold on her hand tightens, desperate.

“My offer still stands, mi amor. We can find a way. Cat will help.”

It’s not often that she gets to see him like this. Frightened. Almost wild. It breaks her heart to know that she is causing it.

“I know,” is what she says instead, caressing his cheek with one hand. “And you know my answer.”

She loves him. More than anything. Even more than the blood that runs in her veins. There isn’t much she can deny him.

Save this.

“Marry me, then.”

 

 

.

.

 

 

They end up having the ceremony in the courtyard of the Cornwall Institute, under a moonlit, night sky.

It is performed by Ragnor Fell, another warlock friend of Magnus, with Catarina as their sole witness. It is no ordinary marriage, and certainly not one the Council will approve, but it is beautiful. They wear their Union runes in a charm, around their wrists. When it’s over, Etta weeps once. Her only wish had been for her family to have witnessed it. For she knows in her heart they would’ve wanted nothing more.

 

 

.

.

 

 

In the morning when she wakes, Magnus is in her arms.

She finds him staring at her, eyes golden and unglamoured. His bare skin is glowing in the sunlight, and she knows in her heart that something’s changed.

“What is it?”

He holds her close, and presses a kiss to her temple. When he speaks again, his voice holds a resigned lilt to it.

“It’s done, my love.”

Fear grips her chest, and she searches his eyes for any sign of doubt. She finds none.

“Are you certain?”

When he nods, she slumps back in the bed, the kind of exhaustion that takes over after a day of bliss slowly overtaking her bones.

He has reached his prime.

“Did I make a mistake, Etta?” In that moment, he looks just as frightened as she feels. “Should I have let you go? Was this all nothing but my foolishness getting the best of me?”

The charm he slipped on her the night before burns on her skin, and she knows in her heart what the answer is.

“Never,” she whispers fiercely, against his shoulder. “You love me, and I, you. That should be enough.”

He swallows. “And children? Do you not wish to have children someday?”

“I do not want children.”

“And eternity? I have forever, but I cannot give it to you.”

She shifts in their bed to better see him. When she takes his face in her hands, it is with a resolve she feels to her very core.

“I do not need forever, my love. Just now. Just here. With you.”

 

 

.

.

 

 

In the end, it still was not enough.

“Etta, I beg of you. _Don’t go_.”

Her grip on her spear tightens, but she refuses to face him. If she does, she will lose her strength. If she allows herself to look at him, she knows she will stay.

“You know I have to. It is my duty.”

She woke up that morning, and her Mark was glowing. War has reached their shores, and Henrietta’s time has come.

“Don't go. Please, mi amor.”

She feels his hand on her wrist, where her rune is wound tightly.

“Forgive me.”

 

 

.

.

 

 

When the Mother of Demons reveals herself, it is under the guise of her own mother.

“Are you my Legion?” she asks, smile so familiar it makes Etta’s skin scrawl.

“That I am,” she tells her.

The Greater Demon walks around her, slow and steady, as though she were prey. When Lilith stops in front of her, her eyes glow red. In them, Etta sees nothing but horror and misery. It is truly difficult to reconcile her with the image of her husband, whose heart and soul are sometimes the only things good in the world.

“It seems fitting, doesn’t it?” Lilith's face takes on a triumphant smirk, in a way that seems like she has already won something a mere mortal has yet to comprehend. “Your lover, son of my liege lord. The Angels could not have picked a more perfect fit.”

She glares at the demon, her grip on her spear tight. “Magnus is nothing like you and your kind.”

“And courageous, too.” She nods in approval, before her demon mark returns. “But all for naught. You cannot kill me, child. No one can kill a Greater Demon. Raziel should have known that, before he created the abomination that is your race.”

“Yet here I am.”

“Yes,” Lilith agrees. “Here you are.”

In the end, the demon queen is right. There is no killing her. But Etta is a Legion. A Nephilim created for the sole purpose of Lilith’s doom. And she will fulfill her destiny.

“What are- what do you think you’re doing!”

Henrietta takes her stele, and presses it over her mark. All her runes glow silver, and the Mark of the Legion, on her arm, becomes golden.

“I am Henrietta Shadowhunter, daughter of Emmanuel and descendant of Jonathan. I am a Legion, and I am your end. With my Mark, I bind you, Lilith of Edom. You will leave this mortal plane, and your demon children with you. My death, shall be your death. It is done.”

For a single moment, the battlefield is bathed in yellow light.

_Farewell, my love._

As it ceases, both Henrietta and Lilith are no more.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

“Alec?”

Air. He’s running out of air.

Alec can’t remember exactly how long he’s been holding his breath, but he only started to notice when his vision began to blur, and his head felt light.

_My wife._

“Hey.” He feels fingers gently wrap around his right arm, and when he turns, he sees Izzy moving towards him, a careful kind of worry etched on her face. “You okay?”

_And she is my wife._

Alec blinks, and all the air in his lungs rush out in one, deep exhale. His sister’s hand effectively reels him back to the present, and as his shoulders sag, so does the strength in his legs, and it takes Alec all his will to keep himself upright.

_My wife._

But his ears have yet to stop ringing.

His wife.

The woman is Magnus’s wife.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Power.

The name Henrietta means _power._

And for as long as she can remember, Etta has known that she was always meant for great, powerful things.

One thing, in particular.

_Legion. One born in every generation. The strongest and most powerful of the Nephilims. Destined to be the equal of Greater Demons. Destined to be ultimate weapons against the forces of evil._

_Destined to die._

When a demonic plague ravaged the lands and almost rid the world of Shadowhunters, the angels blessed a barren Nephilim couple with a son. He was the first Legion, born to be the foil of a Greater Demon who wished to bring Pestilence to the earth.

The demon was vanquished, as was the plague. And the young Nephilim died in honor.

He was the first.

Etta is the second.

After Thaniel was born, Etta’s mother had a vision. From the Angel Raziel himself. She was to have another child, a daughter. The first female of the Shadowhunter line in a long, long time.

The next Legion.

And when Etta was born a little over eight moons later, they all knew power was what she will be.

For if the Gramarye was to be believe in, Lilith will come and wage war against mankind. War that will last for years.

So Henrietta Shadowhunter grew up to be the best of her kind. Jonathan reborn, they said. To dedicate her life for one purpose. One end.

Until Magnus.

“A halfpenny for your thoughts?”

Etta remembers turning, and seeing her brother cross the threshold to her quarters.

“My thoughts don’t even warrant a full penny?” she remembers asking him.

Thaniel had shrugged, placing his hands on the balcony in a position similar to hers. “You can be dull sometimes, sister. I am not prepared to lose that much credits.”

She scoffed, and gave her brother a practiced look of disbelief.

“You’re one to talk,” she told him. “I’m sure if it weren’t for your clothes, Cecilia would surely have mistaken you for a vagabond.”

“I beg your pardon! Vagabonds are quite learned, I’d have you know. They know their letters, and some of them even trace their blood to old houses of nobility.”

“Do they, now?”

She watched Thaniel bristle, and he promptly tugged his doublet by the waist in an effort to appear dignified.

“You are making fun of me. I know it.”

“Well it isn’t such a difficult feat, is it?”

They engaged in a silent battle of wills for a long moment, one obstinate Shadowhunter against another. Only when Nathaniel blinked was Etta able to claim her victory.

“How is your Lady Marston?” she asked him when their laughter finally died down. “I haven’t seen her in a while.”

Her brother gave her a knowing look, one she did not allow herself to acknowledge, but he quickly dropped it when she refused to relent.

“Cecilia is well,” he told her. “Her father is recovering, last I heard. And her sister is getting married.”

“Last you heard? When did you last see her?”

Thaniel shrugged, and bowed his head somberly. “About three sennights.”

She had gaped then, and hit him on the arm. “You dolt! That was almost a moon ago!”

“Ow!” He rubbed the offended limb, and glared at the younger Shadowhunter. “You’ll have to forgive me, _dear sister._ Between watching your rows with Council emissaries, and stopping you from killing yourself in your trainings, it wasn’t exactly as though I had all the time in the world.”

Warmth spread across her cheeks at his remark, knowing full well it held some truth.

“Cecilia is fine,” Thaniel added, when he noticed how her shoulders had dropped. “She is not like most mundanes, and does not need my presence every waking moment.”

Etta sighed, humbled by her brother’s surprising display of dignity.

“But you love her. Surely a part of you wishes to spend every waking moment with her.”

In that moment, something passed between brother and sister. A quiet understanding only two people who had spent their entire lives together can achieve. The older, who’s life’s mission had always been to take care of his sister, saw her now in a different light. A woman grown, with a great and grave destiny ahead of her. And the younger, who saw it her duty to scorn her brother at every opportunity, had despaired for and loved him in equal measures nonetheless.

There was pride in Thaniel’s eyes then, and Etta reveled in it.

“Your company is not so bad.” he declared with a bright grin. “Watching you level the Clave to the ground with that Tefereel boy fills me with much happiness.”

“Don’t mock Thomas! He is a good man. We share the same understanding of the Law, and it is my hope that one day he gets a seat in that damned Council. He might be just what we need to rid us of their evil.”

Thaniel raised an eyebrow at her. “You sound like an admirer.”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

“Now that I think about it, you two will make quite a pair. A sweet, Tefereel Consul and an ill-tempered Shadowhunter Inquisitor.”

Henrietta had flushed, but did not respond.

“…or not.” Her brother gave her a sideways glance, another knowing smile on the face that was very much like her own. “We both know it’s not a Nephilim you have your eyes set on.”

If it was possible, Etta had felt herself becoming more warm, prompting her brother to laugh more loudly.

“And they still wonder why you are so passionate about the plight of Downworlders.”

Her mortification quickly turned to anger, and she scowled at Thaniel.

“I beg your pardon!” she thundered. “My feelings for Magnus are _not_ the reason why I seek a resolution for Downworlders and Mundanes. One does not need to fancy anyone to recognize prejudice and abuse of power.”

Trapped.

One look at her brother was all that Etta needed to realize exactly what she brought upon herself.

“I understand,” was Thaniel’s response, a smirk on his lips. “I beg forgiveness for my remark.”

When she finally accepted that there would be no taking back of the words she just uttered, Etta’s shoulders slumped, and she gazed at the lake before them, as quiet and peaceful as her heart was wild.

“You disapprove.”

There was a long moment of silence before she felt Thaniel edging closer to her.

“I don’t. Not really.”

The admission surprised her, and when she looked up, her brother’s smile was small, yet comforting.

“He is a good man,” he continued. “Thinks the world of you, too, which just proves my earlier doubts that he is not as sane as he’d have people believe.”

Etta simply rolled her eyes. “Of course.”

“And while we all know he is a child of a demon, mother and father don’t exactly seem to mind. I don’t mind too much, either, for what it’s worth.”

“Thank you, brother.”

“You’re very much welcome, little sister.”

After a while, he reached across the ledge and gently took her hands, her fingers paler and significantly smaller than his calloused ones.

“But it will not be an easy journey, Etta. You must know that.”

She simply nodded, already feeling the unshed tears in her eyes. “You speak as if I will pursue him. I have made no such decisions.”

Thaniel merely raised an eyebrow.

“You are my blood. And my stubborn, little sister. I know perfectly well there is nothing that can stop you from anything that you set your mind into.”

She’d never loved her brother more than she did in that very moment. But she also knew he was wrong.

“There is one.”

The understanding in his sharp, Shadowhunter eyes told Etta he knew exactly what she was referring to.

“I will only break his heart,” she continued, when Thaniel remained quiet. “To love him is to make him believe there is a future for us, when there is none. To love him is to make promises I know I will only break. And to let him love me in return is to forsake my one purpose. My very reason for living.” She gripped her brother’s hands, hoping she can make him understand. “Can you really tell me, in good conscience, that that is what I should do?”

When her brother smiled, she recognized the same defiance they often despised of one another.

“Yes,” he said, resolve in his voice. “Damn your destiny, Etta. Let it control you no more.”

That was the night when Nathaniel Shadowhunter gave his sister the courage to leave. To love. And when morning came, she left for Madrid.

That was the last time Etta ever saw her brother.

Light.

Now, all she sees is light.

She always thought that when she dies, Thaniel will come for her, and usher her to the gates of Heaven. She may finally have her chance to beg for his forgiveness. And hit him on the head, for making her foolishly believe she could ever escape her fate.

But all she sees is an endless stream of light, and the feeling of falling.

It continues for what seemed like forever, and when it finally stops, Etta feels warm. When her eyes, heavy and awashed with tears she did not notice she had shed, finally open, the first thing she sees are stars.

Twin, golden stars.

_Bright eyes._

On instinct, she reaches out a hand, and she feels warm skin. The sensation is familiar, and she knows exactly what it means.

She supposes this must be what heaven really is.

When she speaks, her throat is dry, and her voice comes out only a touch more than a whisper.

“Am I dreaming, my love?

 

 

* * *

 

 

Magnus looks at Jia Penhallow’s stern, regal face, and knows that the bitter taste in his mouth feels a lot like desperation.

Nephilims have always been, to some degree, pompous. Angel blood have placed them on a pedestal among the creatures in the Shadow World, and they have ruled ever since. It’s the reason why a part of him can never believe the Clave would ever change. He knows what they are capable of, what their age-old conceit can mean for the rest of the world. He sees the very same misguided conviction in the Consul’s eyes, as she makes her demands.

And he’s heard it in Etta’s voice, the finality in her words, as she walked away to face her destiny. To her end.

_Please, mi amor._

He is not losing her again.

Penhallow’s surprise is evident, and she openly gapes at the warlock. Magnus fights the urge to smirk, feeling a tiny sense of triumph as he successfully takes the Consul down a notch. He has known Jia from her girlhood days in Beijing, and while he may have been fond of the little spunk who once declared she wanted to be a dragon, he will not yield to her.

“That’s not- that’s impossible.”

He watches as Penhallow tries to compose herself.

“William Herondale married a warlock. As did many other Shadowhunters before him. This should not be news to you.”

She nods quietly. “Yes. I know that. But-…they’re not- _she’s_ not- I mean, there would have been _accounts--_ ”

As the Consul continues to splutter, Magnus feels a scratch at the back of his mind.

It has been a long time since he’s thought about his union with Etta. Since he’s allowed himself to _speak_ about it, longer still.

And as all the memories resurface, as does the pain.

"-- no mention of it in _any_ of the books, even in the Codex, and you expect me to just _believe_ you?”

The scratching continues, as though Magnus is missing something. Something important.

“Yes.”

But he shelves it in a corner of his mind, as more pressing matters require his undivided attention - stopping Jia Penhallow from having her way one of them.

“Look,” Magnus sifts through the many jewelries that adorn his neck, and stops when he finds what he’s looking for. It’s a simple, leather cord that has been with him for as long as he can remember. He was never really able to let it go, “you’re not taking her to Alicante, Jia. And that’s final.”

For the first time in a long time, he takes the necklace off. The two, silver charms hooped through the black string glow, and when the warlock hands it to her, their unglamoured state reveals their true form.

One is a golden charm, the symbol of a marriage rune. The other is silver, and much older.

“It can’t be…”

The Consul gasps, for there’s no mistaking the intricate ‘S’ on the signet ring -  the only surviving heirloom of the long-gone Shadowhunter line, thought to have vanished along with Henrietta Shadowhunter.

“Consul Penhallow.”

They both turn to one of Jia’s delegates. The young Shadowhunter shrinks at the attention he suddenly finds himself at the receiving end of, but he soldiers on.

“The woman. She’s awake.”

For a moment, neither of them move.

Fortunately for Magnus, he is the first to recover, and when he does, he nearly sprints to the door of the isolation chamber, uncaring of what anyone may have to say.

“Mr. Bane, wait!”

Breath.

From the moment word of Etta’s death reached him, Magnus has been holding his breath.

For centuries, he’s walked the earth – and other dimensions – in a constant haze. Wandering. Aimless. Nothing but magic with a body, and memories of a girl he loved and lost.

But as he steps into the room and sees her slowly waking, something inside him begins to breathe again.

“Etta.”

It was Catarina who told him, all those years ago.

His dear friend stood at the entrance of the courtyard, face ashen and hands shaking. It only took Magnus one look at her to know what she had to say, and one look for everything to fall apart.

“Magnus,” Cat had begun, her careful steps towards the fountain slow and painstaking, “ _I am so sorry.”_

He remembers shaking his head vehemently, as though preventing her from breathing life into his worst nightmare will stop it from becoming real.

“She’s gone.”

He knew.

He felt it.

Growing up, Etta had refused to have a parabatai.

Whether it was because of her destiny as a Legion, or simply for the fact that she doesn’t want one, she never at all considered the possibility. She thought it unnecessary, a risk not worth it.

Magnus, who had more than his fair share of foolish dreams, had once dreamed of becoming a Nephilim.

If only it could mean he can be Etta’s parabatai.

He never shared it with her, never will, but he had once dreamed of taking the oath with her. His very first friend. That he may spend his entire life repaying her for her kindness, her mercy. That he can feel every hurt, every pain, the moment they come, and be by her side in an instant. He was prepared to live his life solely for her, and he figured only a parabatai bond will give him that.

He should’ve known they didn’t need one.

For the moment Etta left the world of the living, Magnus felt all the air leave his lungs, and he stumbled against a shelf in the library. Etta died, and a mile away, Magnus's world stood still.

Looking at Catarina’s face only confirmed what he already knew in his heart to be true.

“Am I dreaming, my love?”

Beautiful, blue eyes gaze up at him, and Magnus’s own close of their own volition.

Her soft hand is on his cheek, and her voice all that he can hear. When he places his hand over hers, he finally lets the tears fall.

“It’s me,” he manages to say. “Estás a salvo, mi amor. You’re safe. It’s me.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Blue eyes.

She has blue eyes, too.

“What is going on?”

He vaguely hears Jace’s fierce whisper beside him, as well as the Consul and Inquisitor’s hushed tones, but they all feel so far away.

_Not her. Never her._

_Four hundred years pining over one woman._

_Henrietta._

_My wife._

The thing is, when you love someone, you give them all the power in the world to destroy you, to tip your world, hoping, _praying_ , that they will choose not to.

Alec sees the hitch in Magnus’s shoulders, and suddenly, everything is out of balance.

“Hey.”

It takes a moment for him to realize that Izzy has dragged him out of the room. The hallway is significantly more narrow than the isolation chamber, but Alec finds he can breathe easier.

“Are you feeling okay?”

His sister’s eyes are searching, pleading with him to let her help, but Alec doesn’t know where to start.

Etta has blue eyes.

What does that mean, Izzy?

“He never calls me, ‘my love’.”

Izzy blinks at him, probably unsure of what to make of his words. He knows it sounds stupid out loud, but it’s the only thing his mind latches on to at the moment. It’s the only thing he allows himself to think of.

“I’m not really big on pet names,” Alec continues, feeling it all spill out of him before he can stop, “but it became some sort of a running joke. I heard him call Simon a ‘baby carrot’ once, and I never really let him forget it. So yeah, I called him ‘babe’ one time, and his reaction was priceless. Kind of backfired when he started calling me ‘sweetheart’ and ‘mon chéri’, so I guess I really should’ve thought it through first.”

He pauses, if only to take a breath, and elects to ignore the look on Izzy’s face. It’s a lot more pity than he wants to admit.

“There have been a few others, and even times when he uses ‘love’, like, ‘You’ll fall on your face, love.’ or something about ‘Love, you’re not _that_ tall.’ Most of the time, it’s always just ‘Alexander’, and you’ll never hear me complain, but-” He sees Jace and the Council members approaching them from behind Izzy, but, like everything else around them, they seem too far to be real, “never ‘my love’.”

“Alec-”

“Mr. Lightwood,” Consul Penhallow addresses him, and Alec reluctantly straightens. “May we speak in your office?”

Her request is a reprieve, an opportunity to delay an inevitable, and while something at the back of his mind is thrashing, screaming at him for a being a coward, Alec takes it.

“Yes, ma’am. Of course.”

It becomes useless when they reach his office, as it’s his siblings who tear on the older Shadowhunters, the Head of New York Institute unable to articulate a single thought.

“Who is that woman, anyway?” Jace asks his grandmother. “How is she Magnus’s wife? What _exactly_ is going on?”

There’s an edge to his parabatai’s words, one that Alec knows is a slow recognition of something foreboding.

Imogen, however, keeps her eyes trained to the necklace on Penhallow’s hands, and quietly defers to the Consul. “Jia?”

Consul Penhallow blinks, seemingly lost in her own thoughts.

“I’m sure you’ve all heard of the Legacies, and their many tales.”

Alec finds himself nodding along with Jace and Izzy. He knows about Legacies, has studied them along with many other Shadowhunter lore from the Codex. Legacies are the last members of a family that had been lost to the ages, either because of wars, or for the simple lack of descendants. The Inquisitor herself would have been one, had Jace’s true identity not been revealed. Legacies are important parts of their history, as there is something tragic about being the last of your blood.

“What does that have to do with any of this?”

The Consul shoots Jace a stern look, one that doesn’t move his brother in the slightest.

“And I trust you know about Jonathan’s Legacy? How his bloodline ended?”

Alec hears Izzy sigh, knowing his sister is also becoming more and more exasperated with the woman’s need for stories in lieu of a direct answer.

“There are many accounts,” Izzy says. “No one knows the truth, even the Clave. All the existing records are with the Cornwall Institute, and they all date back hundreds of years ago.”

“Four, to be exact.”

Alec knows the exact moment his blood ran cold.

The Consul’s next words never reach his ears, because when he turned, to the receiving area of his office, he sees the paintings that adorn the wall next to the bookshelves. There is one of their family, with him and Izzy standing next to their parents. There’s another one that depicts the signing of the First Accords. Next to it, is an oil painting made by a warlock from Paris. It’s of Jonathan Shadowhunter, next to his sister, Abigail.

Yes. He knows about the Legacy of the Shadowhunter Family.

When he was younger, Alec became fixated with the Codex, and the stories of Nephilims before him. One topic in particular that fascinated him so was that of Legions. The first one was said to have died saving the world from the Black Death. The second, and the last recorded, had an even more elusive tale. Some said she fell in love with a mundane, and left the Shadowhunter life. Others claimed she slighted the Seelie Queen, and was cursed to live the rest of her life with a hideous face, unable to fulfill her duty for fear of being ridiculed.

What Alec deemed more plausible was the last Legion being a descendant of Jonathan Shadowhunter himself, his Legacy.

Despite the many versions, they all had one thing in common.

The Legion was born to be the counterpart of the Mother of Demons. The Queen of Edom’s doom.

Lilith’s Bane.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

_Keep away from me!_

 

Magnus glues his feet firmly to the ground, fighting the urge of his every nerve to take a step forward.

“Etta… it’s me. _Please_. Please, put that down. It’s — Etta, _look at me_.”

The warlock has both his hands up, trying and failing to calm the woman with her back against the wall \--  a small, bloody piece of wood on her shaking fist.

“Am I dreaming my love?”

It was always the voice.

Magnus had spent the next half century after Etta’s death running all over the face of the earth, mad with grief. Bringing her back was the only thing that kept him sane, his obsession with anything that even _hinted_ at anything related to resurrections and necromancy left him with some of his most profound regrets. The things he did in his anguish remain the ones he can never forgive himself for.

Eidolon demons who loved to taunt him, even counterparts from his first trip to another dimension, all had given him Henrietta Shadowhunters that were close to perfection. Down to the last freckle.

But the moment they open their lips, the illusion is broken.

They never could get her voice right.

“You’re safe,” he told her, the first strong feeling that gripped him that of the desire to rid her eyes of the fear that consumed them. “It’s me.”

She blinked, as though she was not yet quite awake.

“It’s me,” he repeated, almost in reverence.

She returned to him. Is there anything more glorious than that?

“Magnus?”

Her hand slowly broke away from his hold, hovering just before his face. Like something out of his oldest dreams, her fingers began tracing his nose, gentle pressure points to his features, then continued across his left cheek, down to his lips, where they stayed.

“I can touch you,” she whispered, breath so close it made Magnus dizzy. “I never get to touch you.”

His confusion must’ve shown, because she frowned and proceeded to smooth an eyebrow.

“Whenever I— You always vanish. Right before my eyes. Now you’re here.”

Indeed. Now, she’s here.

Overwhelmed, Magnus could only lean down to gather her in his arms. Her form, smaller than he remembered, still fitted perfectly in his embrace. Like she was always meant to be there.

That’s when something shifted.

As soon as Magnus began to relax, he felt Etta stiffen, and before he could ask about it, he was violently shoved away.

“Keep away from me!”

She looked violent. Worse, she looked hurt. Betrayed.

“Etta—”

“I said, keep away from me!” She continued to scoot away before her back collided with the headboard. “Not a step closer, _demon_.”

In the present, she has a shiv raised against him, her fingers dripping with blood from smashing the lamp on the bedside table.

“Look at me,” Magnus pleads, mind wild with the numerous possibilities of the situation ending with Etta getting hurt. “Just look at me, my love.”

Carefully, he shows her his cat eyes.

Henrietta, the very first person in the world to call his mark beautiful, would surely recognize them.

“It’s _me_.”

The sound she makes breaks Magnus’s heart.

“How _dare_ you!” she screams, her shoulders wracked with deep sobs. “You stand for _everything_ he fought against! Don’t you _dare_ use his visage!”

What hurts more is that her eyes are clear as day. Magnus knows she sees him, standing before her, yet she somehow can’t make herself believe he is real.

“Etta, please-”

“Magnus!”

The door to the room is violently flung open, and when Magnus sees Catarina, his head goes a little light with relief.

“Cat! You have to-”

He barely finishes when his friend nods, understanding in her face. When his fellow warlock turns to Etta, Magnus sees the same cognitive dissonance he felt earlier - shock,  a long-buried longing, and a defiant refusal to let oneself _hope_ that what you’re seeing is even real -  before she brushes them away.

“Henrietta.”

Etta shifts her attention from Magnus to the other woman, who he knows must bear a striking resemblance to the second warlock she loved enough to call her friend.

 “…Katya?”

It does the trick, and Etta finally lowers her makeshift weapon. When she does, Catarina takes the chance to approach her with a binding spell. Magnus, always unable to use his magic on Etta unless it is the absolute last resort, catches her when she falls.

“Shhh, it’s all right," he whispers against her hair. "It’s all right, it’s just us. You’re safe, mi amor.”

There are already tears in his eyes, even as he tries to brush the ones on Etta’s cheeks.

She _is_  safe. She’s _home._ And if Magnus has to spend the rest of his eternal life trying to make her believe that, he gladly will.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Did you know warlocks choose their names?” Izzy once asked him, all those years ago. “They do it just before they stop aging. They can keep their old ones, but most prefer their new name, because they chose it for themselves. Isn’t that cool?”

Magnus Bane, High Warlock of Brooklyn.

The second Legion. Lilith’s Bane.

Funny how life works, sometimes.

“Mr. Lightwood?” Alec hears the Consul, but chooses instead to let his eyes linger on the door where the Inquisitor and his siblings left not a moment ago. “Alec.”

“Ma’am?”

Jia Penhallow sets her lips on a firm line, the only thing betraying the impatience her posture is trying to conceal.

“As I was saying,” she continues, the fact that she is letting his inattention slide as a favor unspoken but implied, “it is very important that we leave with the woman immediately. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t. I’m sure you understand that.”

A spike of annoyance at her condescending tone almost causes Alec to snap back, but he quickly remembers who he’s talking to, and he straightens. He is Maryse Lightwood’s son, after all.

“Actually, ma’am, I’m not entirely sure I do.”

The Consul blinks. “Pardon?”

Slowly, Alec feels his confidence returning. Assuming the role of Head of the New York Institute is easier.

“What I find interesting is exactly how the Council found out about her in the first place. I know Jace never told Imogen.” His brother didn’t have to tell Alec, his confusion about the latest course of events is proof enough. “And who is she, really? You spoke of Legacies, but you never confirmed anything. And why do you need her in Alicante so badly?”

The most powerful Shadowhunter in the Clave stands before him, jaw slacked and a little taken aback, yet all Alec can feel is a hint of smugness.

He is _so_ going to regret this later.

“I-” Jia pauses, no doubt choosing her words very carefully. She spends the next few seconds fiddling with the necklace on her fingers, before regarding him with a wary glance. “I understand that you have a… _personal involvement_ in this matter, Mr. Lightwood. But I’m sure you can set aside all that to fulfill your duties as head of this institute. The Law is the Law, after all.”

Alec feels his left eye twitch, and for a brief moment he wonders why he ever admired the position this woman is currently hiding behind.

“I certainly can, Madam Consul.” He spits the title like venom, and the look on Jia’s face tells him she caught it perfectly. “But _personal involvement_ aside, I am still the Head of the New York Institute, and Henrietta is my responsibility. Unless I know all the details, I cannot, in good conscience, hand her over to just anyone.”

He means all of it, which makes the flicker in Penhallow’s face all the more satisfying.

“You’ll make a good Consul,” Magnus had told him, a night after one of their Downworld Cabinet meetings. “In a better time, perhaps. With a better Clave. You might just be what the Shadow World needs.”

He had been so proud to hear it from Magnus, whose approval he has always sought when a plan works and whose eyes he deliberately avoids when a reckless decision falls apart.

“The Accords had only been a dream once, and peace nothing more than an illusion. But we’re getting there, Valentine Morgenstern aside.”

For an ancient warlock, he sounded hopeful. Of the future. Of him.

“You’re a good man, Alexander. And a good Shadowhunter. Maybe this time, tragedy will not be the only thing waiting for a good Shadowhunter.”

He held unto those words for a long time, even through their fight. Now, a part of him wonders just how much of a claim he really has on the sentiment.

Had he been talking about Etta?

Is there anything about Magnus that isn’t somehow a result of Etta’s role in his life?

“Very well,” the Consul voices out, effectively interrupting his thoughts. “If you want to know, then I shall tell you.”

Before she can begin, Izzy comes barging into his office, in a way that is already too familiar Alec barely registers it as something odd. But because of the circumstances, and the heavy breathing on his sister’s part, Alec gives her his undivided attention.

“It’s Magnus.”

She is panting, and her next words, Alec knows, is for him and him alone.

“They’re gone.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Madzie is with a mundane couple I know from the hospital. They have two kids, which I think would be good for her. The wife knows I’m a warlock, the husband doesn’t. But they’re good people, so she should be fine.”

Magnus merely nods, a little ashamed at the fact that his inquiry was done more out of courtesy than anything else.

“Here.” When he looks up, Catarina is already handing him a cup of a coffee. He gives the beverage a disgusted look before taking it, grateful at the silent understanding his best friend has in spades.

“I’m sorry. Today has just been…”

Cat squeezes his shoulder as both their gazes land on the woman slumbering peacefully on the bed.

“I’m not dreaming, am I? This is all really true?”

Magnus knows all about hallucinations. They can be just as deadly as real danger. Illusions have a way of luring you into your deepest and darkest desires, of giving you everything you’ve ever wanted, only to have you end up with ashes on your fingertips and the world burning right before your eyes.

And he knows if anyone looks further enough, there really is only one thing they’ll see within him.

It’s his Henrietta, alive and returned to him.

“Hey.” He feels Cat dragging a chair beside him. “It’s real, okay? She’s here. We’re all here.”

And she’s right, as always.

The beige wallpaper of Catarina’s guest bedroom is real. The smell of rosemary from the kitchen is real. Cat’s presence, a warm and solid personification of everything Magnus has come to see as reassuring and dependable, is real. Etta - her pale face and bleeding hand, the steady rise and fall of her chest, the dirt stain at the hem of her shift dress – is real.

“What happened, anyway?” Cat asks. “How is she here? Where have you two been?”

Lilith.

The letter bore Lilith’s mark.

_And before this all ends, I may surprise you yet._

“She came back, Cat.” is what he says instead. The only thing he allows himself to say.

Etta came back to him, and Magnus is not sure if he is willing to ask why.

His best friend must’ve sensed the storm brewing inside him, for Cat scoots closer and holds both his hands. It was only when she did that he notices he had been trembling since they arrived to her apartment. They still don’t stop, but Cat keeps them tethered.

“We’ll figure it out, my dear.”

 Somehow, he knows he’ll always believe in Catarina.

“A Shadowhunter?”

The older warlock, whose life he had the pleasure of saving a mere fortnight ago, had given him an exasperated look. He scowled at her in return.

“You’re in love with a _Shadowhunter_?”

“Must you be so loud?” he shot back, a little worried the brothers will hear his new friend’s endless hollering. “And do refrain from saying ‘shadowhunter’ as though it were an ancient curse.”

Catarina leaned back against her chair and regarded him with amused, narrowed eyes.

“I mean- I understand you are very young, my dear kitten, but Dios mio, a Nephilim? Estás loco?”

Magnus remembered being very slighted by her words. He was fully prepared to send her chair flying outside the cathedral, and he would’ve succeeded with the other warlock still in bandages, but he saw something else in her teasing smile. Beneath the disbelief, there was kinship, and a smallest hint of awe. She was impressed.

“I want to meet her, then" Catarina announced haughtily. "Warlocks have a reputation to uphold when it comes to taste in lovers, after all.”

And Etta, with her rebellious streak and genuine compassion for Downworlders, soon became Catarina’s favorite Shadowhunter.

“This changes many things. You know that, right?”

He remembers Jia Penhallow’s incredulous demand to take Etta away, and his realization that he will do _anything_ to stop her.

"I know."

A pause. “Have you spoken with Alec?”

Like a switched flipped on, something inside Magnus flickers, and a cold, dreadful realization sinks in.

Alexander.

“Magnus?”

His right leg twitches, and before he knows it, he’s already standing up.

"I—" He looks to Cat, a desperate cry for help lodged in his throat. “I- I can’t— I have to –” His head is throbbing, and there doesn't seem to be _any air._ “He doesn’t — _Alexander._ ”

“Just breathe, honey. You’re all right. Just breathe.”

At the edge of his vision, he sees Etta - breathing in and out, and in, and out – but his mind can only focus on one thing. That he _forgot_.

 _She is my wife_.

He was there.

“Cat, I have to—” His eyes quickly rake the room for _something_ , but he doesn’t know what. “Alexander, he— he was there, I just _left._ I have to—”

When he turns to the door, there is already a portal slowly opening. Catarina’s grip on his arm is the last thing he feels before he steps in.

“Go.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

He immediately regrets his decision as soon as he reaches the door.

 _And she is my wife_.

Every rational part of Alec’s brain is screaming at him to turn around, to leave this moment for another day. But the slimmest chance of them not being inside somehow gives him a false sense of courage, and he raises a fist to knock.

Before his knuckles reach the surface, the door to the loft opens, startling his already coiled nerves.

“Oh.”

The apartment is empty, and Alec quickly dismisses the maddening blend of relief and disappointment that pooled at the bottom of his stomach.

Relief, because it means he doesn’t have to confront anyone and anything _just yet_.

And disappointment, because part of him really just wanted to see him.

“I guess I’ll just have to-”

He never finishes the sentence, because before he can retrace his steps back to the door, a familiar swirl of light appears by the balcony, and – to his utter horror -  a portal opens, revealing the exact person he came to see. The irony.

“Alexander.”

At the end of the day, it always comes down to that. The fact that no one else in the world can say his name the way he does.

“Magnus.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

INTERLUDE II

 

 

There is something different in the air, and all the creatures in Edom know it.

The magic in this realm, endless flames for mundanes and poison to anyone with angel blood, pulses with an ancient purpose. It exists to scorn anything that has ever touched grace.

Deep within the bowels of this dimension, beneath the statue of the fallen Shadowhunter, lies a fortress of unimaginable power. This kingdom, overseen by a ruler with as much angel blood as the Heavenly Father’s precious Michael, thrives in its infernal nature.

It is the home of every monster that ever lurked in the dark.

“My Lord.”

One of the Asmodei approaches the dais, stopping just before the steps to perform an elaborate bow.

“There have been whispers. From our own emissaries topside.” The soldier speaks carefully, every breath attuned to any reaction his liege may have.  “And my brothers speak of a disturbance in the forge.”

Asmodeus, King of Edom and former right hand to the Light Bearer himself, lifts his chin at his spawn, the only indication that he is listening is the glow in his bright, golden eyes.

“They speak of our queen's defeat. And a massive rift in the northern borders.”

To the messenger’s surprise, Asmodeus smiles, and rises from his seat. His cane, as pitch black as the embers that burn from a torch beside the throne, seems to gleam in his delight.

“Just in time, then.”

Behind him, in an altar above their heads, sits an ominous hourglass, with sand moving to the bottom in a continuous slipping of time.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yes, I deleted the Chapter titles. It got a little bland because of the lack of uniformity/pattern. Will change them when I think of something clever :)


	8. Chapter 8

 

It takes the portal closing behind him for Magnus to snap out of it, and when he does, his breath catches.

“Alexander.”

He really does have beautiful eyes.

“Magnus,” the Shadowhunter replies, voice just as faint as his. He watches Alec struggle to get more words out, perhaps to fill the space the silence is ripping between them, but his lover pauses when his eyes land on something on Magnus’s arm. “Is— is that blood? Are you hurt?” Alec begins to take a step forward, but ultimately retreats, as though he is remembering something.

“Hmm?” Magnus dwells on the painful display for a few moments before he lifts his right sleeve, and sees the blood stain the Nephilim was referring to. “Oh. This.”

_Keep away from me!_

“It’s not mine,” he supplies, knowing how quickly the man in front of him can jump into the most unfortunate conclusions. “It’s Etta’s.”

He realizes his mistake almost immediately.

Alec visibly winces at his response, as though the name itself was an assault he was unable to block. Like a collision he is helpless to stop, Magnus despairs at the way Alec’s shoulders stiffen, and between one breath and another, the soldier returns. And the warlock never could read the soldier.

“How is she?” Alec asks, tone now void of any emotion it held a few heartbeats ago, “You brought her to Catarina’s?”

Magnus looks around the empty loft.

He feels a wave of shame wash over him, although this time less for the entire situation, and more for the _‘what are you doing here’_ stuck in his throat from when he first arrived.

He did not know where the portal would take him when he stepped in, his entire body only fueled by the need get to Alec as fast as he possibly can. When he reached his apartment and found him, the first thing that came to his mind was why in the world was he there.

But the truth is, he really shouldn’t have to ask.

On the balcony,  a beautiful, Chinese bonsai Alec bought on impulse sits, along with Magnus’s other succulents. In the kitchen, an apron that has ‘Can Cook Breakfast Sometimes’ embroidered on it has taken permanent residence. One can also find an old, childhood mug bought from Alicante, and a mason jar filled with lemon candies the warlock swears up and down are ‘a disgrace to confectionery’. In the bedroom,  a book about ceramics lays on the table, its first page penned with a lovely message about gullible high warlocks and undercover potential of institute heads.

He doesn’t have to ask, because along the way, the loft became as much Alexander’s home as it is his.

And now they’re standing in the middle of their home, so close yet still so many worlds apart.

“Yes,” the warlock replies. For a brief moment, he sees a flash of Etta, disheveled and unconscious on Cat’s bed, and he feels a tug in his chest. He quickly dismisses it. “She was in shock, but we— well, she’s resting now.”

Alec takes his statement like a report, with a sharp nod of acknowledgment and nothing more, and something indignant within Magnus stirs.

_Have you spoken with Alec?_

Since the initial adrenaline already ran its course, he is only left with the shame.

The thing is, Magnus Bane has always divided his long, long life into three parts:

The first one, the shortest, is Before Etta. There had been a simple and beautiful childhood. He remembers sweet lullabies, and delicious desserts. He remembers a favorite tree, and reading poetry. There had been dreams of becoming a soldier, and nightmares about blood on his hands and burning flesh. His memories before the Cornwall Institute are the faintest, his early life under the name he has buried almost forgotten.

The second part is the most vivid, and the most delicate. His life During Etta had been about transformation, and growth. His years in Madrid were some of his favorite, and he can only ever recall a single heartbreak in this entire period. It just so happens to be the greatest one.

The last section, the part that doesn’t seem to end, is his life After Etta. It’s four centuries of bad decisions after another, and of searching for dark locks and sweet smiles in every corner of the world. It’s a life of endless misery, until it wasn’t.

 _Who are_ you _?_

_Alec._

Yes, he forgot about Alexander. He supposes he forgot about many things, too. Anything Etta has always had that effect on him.

But this one’s different.

And seeing Alec lock him out and pretend nothing’s amiss, while completely expected – deserved, even – when he was so sure he will have to explain himself til the end of time, is gutting.

Slowly, Magnus takes a deep breath to still his pounding heart.

“Alexander—”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Not mine._

_Etta’s._

The words leave Alec’s ears ringing, so many things he is unwilling to confront summarized in two breaths. More and more, the truth in them is getting harder to deny.

Magnus is not his. Not anymore.

_Was he ever?_

The storm in Magnus’s eyes moves, and a resolve takes root. He watches as the warlock makes a decision, and if Alec could run, he would.

“Alexander—”

“The Consul is gone.”

The statement leaves his lips faster than he anticipated, but the temporary respite it brings him is undeniable. Magnus stops, surprised. Contrary to the anger and confusion and entitlement that fueled him to march into the loft, Alec is not prepared to talk to him at all.

He is not prepared to lose him just yet.

And if he allows Magnus to begin _that_ conversation, something inside him already knows he will.

“We talked,” Alec continues, before he loses his nerve, “and I was able to convince her to return to Idris. For now. Imogen is staying for insurance, but the Council is effectively giving us two weeks to…settle down.”

Jia Penhallow is one hell of a woman, and her determination to get Henrietta to Idris is almost frightening. But growing up with Maryse and Isabelle Lightwood had taught Alec a thing or two about dealing with headstrong and stubborn women, so he persisted.

“That _little_ —”

“Thank you, Izzy,” he told his sister, half in an attempt to quell the Consul’s rage, and the other half to convey to the younger Lightwood his thoughts without having to say them. “Tell the others to rest easy. They’re not a threat, so going after them won’t be necessary.”

Izzy was clearly confused, and Penhallow, furious.

“Mr. Lightwood! I don’t _think_ —”

“Please, Izzy.” His voice held no arguments, and he knew his sister understood. To his right, the Consul spluttered, and Alec found he’s becoming accustomed to putting her in her place. What he’s doing may as well be career suicide, but it did not mean he couldn’t enjoy it.

“What do you think you’re doing, Alec?” Jia demanded when Isabelle left.

“The right thing, ma’am.” And he did believe it. He knew he was doing the right thing, because the right thing always hurts.  And if it meant he had to ignore the way his entire body was leaning towards the doorway, _begging_ him to run after Magnus, then that was what he was gonna do. “Now. You were going to tell me something?”

And she did. By the angel, she did.

“…Huh.”

There is something comical about the whiplash Magnus is having, and a couple of days ago, Alec would’ve sent him a smug smirk, but things are different now. Last week seems like a lifetime ago.

“That is—” He waits for him to process the news, simultaneously humbled and wounded by the naked relief on the warlock’s face. “…Thank you, Alexander.”

He nods, unable to do anything else.

Why.

So many questions. Countless demands at the tip of his tongue, and all it comes down to is a handful of whys.

_Why did you leave so suddenly?_

_Why does she have blue eyes?_

_Why didn’t you tell me you were married?_

_Why did you lie?_

Why _do you love me?_

And the most important question, the one stuck in his chest like a hiccup that just won’t surface, is not even a ‘why’ at all.

_Did you really?_

It’s becoming harder and harder for Alec to breath, and before he passes out and makes himself look even more of a fool,  he stutters out half a farewell and all but bolts for door. When he’s sure it’s closed, he leans against the wall in the hallway, wondering how in the world did standing before the person he loves most become so difficult.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Magnus can only gape after the door.

_We talked, and I was able to convince her to return to Idris._

He knows he should feel happy, _relieved_ — and he is — but it’s convincing his heart of this positive emotion that is proving to be a little harder than anticipated.

Alec left.

 _Ran_ would be the more apt term, really. Alexander all but ran away from the disaster that their conversation was slowly growing into, and Magnus knows he should also feel _something_ — stung, hurt, ashamed — but all he gets is a certain numbness that has his fingers twitching for a bottle.

He stops himself, and he walks to the nearest seat he can find instead.

“Having a long day, aren’t we?”

The crisp voice cuts through the haze, and Magnus has to close his eyes before they roll right out of his skull. He’d recognize that voice anywhere, even when it’s coming right out of his own damned mind.

“Ragnor.”

His personal hallucination of his dead best friend is back, conjured after yet another miserable situation, and the warlock wonders exactly when his brain became so autonomous.

“I’m not real. It’s all in your mind. We’ve already established those things the first time, my friend.”

Not-Ragnor gives him a cheeky smile, and it’s the first thing he sees when he finally opens his eyes.

“I can make you disappear, you know that, right?” Magnus tries his very best to appear threatening, a feat he was never really able to accomplish even when the real Ragnor Fell was still alive and breathing. It must have something to do with having seen him in his lowest of lows, that Ragnor had always been unable to see him as any more dangerous than a homeless kitten in the rain. Oh, the irony. “I can just snap my fingers, and you’ll be out of my hair.”

The apparition merely gives him a sad smile. “In your better days, I’m sure you can.”

Not-Ragnor has real Ragnor’s look of pity mastered, and Magnus finds it incredibly unfair.

“In fact, in your better days you wouldn’t even need me. But there you are and here I am.”

He lets his eyes stay on his friend, allowing his already stinging eyes to marvel at how _vivid_ his conjured up image of Ragnor is. He looks so real, sitting in front of him, no doubt judging his poor decisions in life, and Magnus knows he would give _anything_ to have it be real. He’d take Ragnor’s pity, if it meant he can have his best friend again, alive and breathing before him.

But he knows the people he wants to be alive never return to him when he needs them, and the people who _do_ come back, will have a homecoming so unexpected, it tears everything apart.

“Here we are,” he tells Not-Ragnor instead.

They are both silent for a long moment, him and his subconscious personified. Perhaps there are things even his own hallucination is not capable to breathe life into.

“She’s back.”

Magnus looks up, startled at the statement.

“Etta returned to you,” Not-Ragnor repeats, as though to make sure Magnus heard it right.

It’s surreal, the actual admittance. It’s the first time he hears it spoken other than inside his mind, and while there’s an argument to be made that the current conversation is _still_ just happening between him and his own mind,  his ears still hear the words, and it effectively brings everything in a new light.

Etta _is_ back.

What does that mean?

“What do we do now?” The hallucination echoes, proving yet again that he is only just talking to his own self, disguised in a face he knows he desperately needs to see in these kinds of moments.

“I don’t know, Ragnor.”

Not-Ragnor nods, the honesty in his response difficult to deny. He really has no idea.

What _do_ you do when the world grants you your greatest wish?

What do you do when you no longer know what to do with it?

“What _do_ you know, then?”

Magnus sighs, and considers the question.

“What I know is,” he begins, after a long moment, “that Etta is first person I ever loved. I loved her so much. Then, she was gone. And four centuries couldn’t fill the hole she left behind.”

Not-Ragnor considers his answer, too. And after another period of silence, he only repeats what Magnus’s own mind has already supplied for him.

“Until Alexander.”

Magnus sighs, feeling the pain he was waiting for rush in.

“Yes. Until him.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

In. Out. In and Out. In—

It takes a while before Alec’s breathing becomes steady.

—and Out.

When it does, he opens his eyes, and the world is no longer spinning.

“Fuck,” he manages to say, when the reality that he ran away from Magnus just a few minutes ago finally dawned on him. He feels himself flush with shame, and before he can continue his sprint all the way to the Institute, his pants pocket becomes significantly heavier, and he remembers the package he brought with him. Slowly, he takes the jewelry out and the ring seems to burn in his hand.

_And she is my wife._

It would be a nightmare to enter the loft again after his stint earlier, but Alec straightens, choosing it over having to hold on to the wedding band one second longer.

He takes a deep breath, and opens the door.

“Mag—”

“I don’t know, Ragnor.”

It’s definitely Magnus’s voice, but his words take a while to make any sense.

Ragnor.

Oh.

The warlock _has_ mentioned his hallucinations ages ago and Alec’s heart aches at this, knowing Magnus's stress levels must be so high he’s seeing his dead best friend again. He wants to reach out to him, damn the consequences, but he keeps his position, and listens.

“What I know is that Etta is the first person I ever loved. I loved her so much. Then she was gone, and four centuries couldn’t fill the hole she left behind.”

Air.

Alec is running out of air all over again, and this time, there really is only one thing he can do.

He closes the door.

 

 


End file.
